THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE    CHASM 


THE  CHASM 

A  NOVEL  BY 
GEORGE  CRAM  COOK 


"/  love  those  -who  sacrifice  themselves  to 
the  earth,  that  the  earth  may  be  one  day 
the  Superman's" 

SO   SPAKE   ZARATHUSTRA 


"Come  shoulder  to  shoulder  ere  earth 
grows  older!  The  Cause  spreads  over 
land  and  sea." 

THE    VOICE   OF  TOIL 


NEW    YORK 

FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  IQII,  by 
FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


February, 


Til 


PARTI 


MOLINE 


THE  nine-fifteen  train  was  speeding  toward  Mo- 
line  on  the  Mississippi.  At  the  window  of  one 
of  the  Pullman  staterooms,  a  girl,  lifting  her 
eyes  from  her  book,  looked  out  across  black,  fall- 
plowed  furrows,  russet  plains  cut  with  barbed-wire 
fences,  wet  fields  full  of  broken  and  withered  corn 
stalks  tramped  by  cattle.  The  sky  was  covered  with 
gray,  amorphous  cloud. 

"How  dismal  this  country  is,"  said  the  girl. 

"We  should  have  stayed  in  Italy  till  May  at  least," 
answered  her  middle-aged  mother  in  the  chair  oppo 
site. 

The  girl's  tightened  lips  marked  her  inward  de 
nial. 

"You  must  learn,  Marion,  to  find  your  sunshine  in 
your  own  soul,"  preached  the  lady.  "Roman  palaz- 
zo  or  desert  island  are  all  one  to  me." 

"If  you  mean  that  first  palazzo  we  tried  to  exist 
in — give  me  the  island." 

"Some  day  you  will  learn  to  make  yourself  inde- 


-f£o;-.-;pr- 
.1  di<'w«-.4  «•->  *.^v^i 


2  THE    CHASM 

pendent  of  the  external  world  and  be  complete  in 
yourself,"  the  other  continued,  not  to  be  diverted 
by  frivolous  exaggerations. 

"You  have  to  depend  on  external  dressmakers, 
though.  And  what  about  food,  Mama?" 

"The  day  may  come  when  we  learn  to  nourish 
our  bodies  spiritually,"  the  mother  maintained. 

Marion  reopened  her  book — Fogazzaro's  "II 
Santo"  printed  in  Italian  and  privately  bound  in 
hand-tooled  crimson  levant.  On  the  title-page,  in 
Russian-looking  script  was  written  the  name  of  Ma 
rion  Moulton  and  that  of  Feodor  de  Hohenfels. 

As  soon  as  her  mother  became  immersed  in  her 
new  thought  pamphlet,  the  girl  let  her  head  sink 
back  and  closed  her  eyelids. 

•  The  Italian  maid  on  the  other  side  of  the  room 
laid  down  her  needlework  and  brought  a  small 
cushion. 

"You're  very  thoughtful,"  said  Marion,  speaking 
Italian. 

"If  the  signorina  would  let  me  take  off  that  great 
hat?"  suggested  Mathilde.  "The  cinders  do  not 
come  in  any  more."  Brown  veil  and  green  velvet  hat 
removed,  the  girl's  red-gold  hair  showed  circlewise 
around  her  head  in  a  massive  coil  like  a  garland  or  a 
crown.  Without  taking  off  her  long  brown  gloves, 
she  had  slipped  her  right  hand  free  to  turn  the  leaves 
of  her  book.  For  ring,  so  soft  it  could  be  molded  to 
her  finger,  she  wore  a  thick  band  of  gold,  from 
which,  in  gypsy  setting,  the  highest  point  of  light  in 
her  color  scheme,  gleamed  a  vivid  yellow  diamond. 

"What  does  the  word  abaco  mean,  Mathilde?" 
asked  Marion.  She  suspected  it  of  being  an  abacus. 


THE    CHASM  3 

Of  course  she  must  know  what  an  abacus  was,  only 
— she  found  she  didn't.  Mathilde  also  had  to  con 
vince  herself  of  her  ignorance  and  was  looking  the 
word  up  in  an  Italian  dictionary  when  she  was  inter 
rupted  by  a  knock  at  the  stateroom  door.  The  por 
ter  gave  her  a  card,  which  she  handed  to  Marion. 

"George  Pearson,"  she  read. 

Asked  to  come  in,  a  correctly  attired  young  man 
with  thin  brown  hair,  aquiline  nose  and  narrow  chin 
greeted  the  ladies  effusively.  "We'd  begun  to  think 
you  were  never  coming  back,"  he  said,  seating  him 
self.  "To  think  of  my  being  on  the  same  train!  I 
didn't  see  you  get  on.  The  conductor  asked  me  if  I 
knew  you  were  on  board.  Not  that  I'm  in  the  habit 
of  talking  to  conductors,  but  this  one  used  to  know 

me  when  I  was  a  small  boy,  so  of  course "  He 

stopped,  judging  he  had  said  enough  to  justify  the 
intimacy  of  the  trainman. 

Marion  did  not  look  very  sympathetic,  and  Mr. 
Pearson  concluded  he  must  be  careful  not  to  offend 
her  presumable  new  standards  of  exclusiveness  ac 
quired  in  her  recent  contact  with  the  European  aris 
tocracy. 

"How  is  Lady  Diotima,  George?" 

"Lady  Diotima?  Oh,  yes,  that's  what  you  used 
to  call  my  mother.  Why,  she's  well,  thank  you. 
She  will  want  to  see  you  right  away." 

"I  have  strange  tales  for  her  sympathetic  ears." 

"I'd  like  to  hear  a  little  of  that,  myself,"  the  young 
man  suggested,  glancing  at  Mrs.  Moulton,  and  then 
at  his  watch.  "I  want  you  folks  to  take  lunch  with 
me.  They  have  a  new  diner — a  beauty,  finished  in 
mission  style." 


4  THE    CHASM 

"They're  waiting  lunch  for  us  at  home,"  Marion 
explained.  "Won't  papa  be  cross  by  two?"  she 
added  to  her  mother. 

"Thank  you,  though,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Moul- 
ton. 

"Don't  let  us  keep  you  from  your  lunch,"  put  in 
Marion. 

"Why-uh,  there's  no  hurry.  I'm  awfully  anxious 
to  find  out  if  some  things  I've  heard  are  true." 

"I  am  going  to  take  just  a  peep  at  that  mission 
car,"  announced  Mrs.  Moulton. 

"Mother!"  Marion  remonstrated,  but  Mrs. 
Moulton  was  undeterred  and  left. 

"Your  mother  is  a  brick,"  said  George  enthusias 
tically.  "Quickest  person.  She  knew  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  some  things." 

"Naturally — since  you  said  so.  But  did  she  know 
I  wanted  you  to  ask  them?" 

"Why,  don't  you?  Seems  to  me  I  have  pretty 
near  a  right  to,  Marion." 

"Do  you  believe  much  in  'rights'  of  that  sort? 
If  you  want  me  to  do  anything,  make  me  want  to." 

"What  kind  of  a  moral  standard  is  that — doing 
only  what  you  want  to?"  demanded  George,  looking 
severe. 

"That  is  all  we  do  anyway.  One  way  is  to  do 
things  honestly  because  we  want  to.  The  other 
is  to  find  some  lofty  moral  ground  for  doing  the 
very  same  things." 

"What  becomes  of  the  will-power  of  a  person 
who  does  only  what  he  wants  to?" 

"Is  there  such  a  person?     Well,   I  should  say 


THE     CHASM  5 

strength  is  developed  by  doing  things  rather  than 
by  not  doing  them." 

"Are  those  European  ideas?"  demanded  George. 

"Not  particularly.  They  are  Marionian  ideas. 
Your  mother  shares  them." 

"Oh,  mother!  It's  all  talk  with  her.  She  acts 
just  like  everybody  else.  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't." 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  to !  Do  you  suppose 
I  would  be  guilty  of  acting  just  like  anybody  else — 
by  cut  and  dried  formulas — rules  of  propriety — 
with  never  a  guiding  emotion  of  my  own — never 
one  spontaneous  'yes'  or  'no'  out  of  my  own  heart — 
a  clockwork  dummy  wound  up  to  do  the  proper 
thing?" 

"Why,  who  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about, 
Marion?  You  don't  mean  my  mother,  do  you?" 

"Your  mother,  you  idiot!  Bless  your  heart,  no! 
I  mean  about  everybody  but  her.  She  is  a  live  per 
son  in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  social  automata." 

Mr.  Pearson  rose  abruptly.  "I  don't  think  I  care 
to  ask  you,  Miss  Moulton,  about  your  reported  en 
gagement  to  that  foreigner,  since  you  consider  me 
an  idiot!" 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  were  really  one !" 

"I  never  had  a  girl  call  me  that  in  my  life.  I 
don't  propose  to  give  any  girl  the  chance  to  do  it 
twice." 

"Don't  be  a  baby,  George !  Sit  down  here.  Must 
I  really  explain  that  we  feminine  mortals  call  no 
one  but  our  intimates  idiots?" 

"I  would  prefer  to  be  excluded  from  that  select 
circle." 


6  THE     CHASM 

"That's  clever!"  She  smiled  at  him  winningly, 
but  her  unflattering  surprise  at  his  cleverness  irri 
tated  him  still  more  and  he  refused  to  relax.  "Oh, 
well,"  she  said,  settling  herself  in  her  chair  and  pre 
paring  to  dismiss  him  from  her  thoughts. 

"If  those  are  European  ideas  and  manners  of 
yours,  young  lady,  I  think  you'd  better  stay  in  Mo- 
line  and  lose  a  little  polish."  He  threw  loose  the 
curtain.  Looking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  to 
see  how  Marion  was  taking  his  departure,  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  collide  with  Mrs.  Moulton  return 
ing  from  her  peep  at  the  mission  car. 

"It  didn't  take  you  long,  Marion,"  commented 
Mrs.  Moulton,  resuming  her  chair. 

"No,  I  was  abominably  rude  to  him  and  he  didn't 
know  it.  Then  I  made  amends  by  being  nice  and 
he  thought  I  was  insulting  him.  All  he  can  hear  is 
words.  Mr.  G.  Pearson  shows  me  what  a  dungeon 
Moline  would  be  to  me.  Oh,  I  hate  papa  every 
time  I  think  of  it!" 

"Marion!" 

"And  I  think  about  it  all  the  time.  Even  when  I'm 
asleep  some  of  my  mind  still  burns  with  the  humilia 
tion  of  that  cablegram." 

"It  would  have  worked  out  all  right  if  you  hadn't 
insisted  on  leaving.  You  gave  Feodor  no  chance 
to  forgive  you." 

"I  can't  bear  to  be  forgiven.  I  won't  be.  If  papa 
won't  write  and  apologize  I  shall  contrive  somehow 
to  make  my  own  living.  I  will  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  papa — never  in  my  life !" 

"If  you  would  leave  it  to  me  everything  would 
work  out  all  right.  I  have  been  sending  the  right  in- 


THE     CHASM  7 

fluence  into  your  father's  mind  every  night  and 
morning  since  we  left  Rome." 

The  girl  picked  up  an  alligator  hand-purse, 
glanced  at  a  miniature  watch  set  in  the  leather  and 
realized  that  in  another  half  hour  she  would  be 
facing  her  father.  The  tension  of  her  nerves  grew 
painful.  A  stop  in  East  Moline  seemed  prolonged 
wantonly.  When  the  air-brake  fell  in  Moline  she 
reached  the  station  platform  and  located  the  driver 
of  the  motor-car  before  her  mother  and  Mathilde 
appeared. 

The  driver,  Eldridge,  affected  by  her  tense  atmos 
phere,  sent  his  machine  recklessly  through  the  dingy 
brick  business  section  crowded  with  workingmen, 
past  the  great  factories,  up  the  hill  on  the  high 
power,  between  the  terra  cotta  pillars  at  the  gate  of 
Hillcrest,  along  the  curving  driveway,  past  the  con 
servatory  and  under  the  archway  of  the  porte 
cochere  where  the  heavy  car  skidded  a  little  on  the 
concrete  flags  and  stopped. 

A  footman  in  livery  and  white  gloves  opened  the 
door — the  end  of  their  five  thousand  mile  journey — 
the  door  of  "Dave"  Moulton,  plow  manufacturer, 
the  great  man  of  Moline. 

Mr.  Moulton  was  just  coming  downstairs  as  they 
entered — a  big,  slow-moving  man  of  fifty  with  well- 
trimmed,  reddish  brown  beard  and  florid  cheeks. 
He  was  unconsciously  chewing  the  end  of  a  thick, 
unlighted  cigar.  His  high  forehead  was  a  little 
flushed  and  moist,  his  blue  eyes  keen  behind  rimless 
gold  spectacles.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Anne,"  he 
said.  His  voice  was  deep  and  convincing.  He  evi 
dently  wished  to  have  no  more  made  of  this  than  if 


8  THE    CHASM 

his  wife  had  been  away  only  a  day.  He  returned 
her  kiss  perfunctorily  and  turned  to  Marion.  "How 
are  you,  daughter?"  he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

"I  don't  feel  like  shaking  hands  with  you,"  she 
said. 

His  hand  drew  back  abruptly,  his  lips  and  eyes 
ominously  hardening.  "Oh,  is  that  the  way  you 
feel?"  He  turned  toward  the  library  as  though 
there  were  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

The  girl  matched  his  effect  of  indifference  by 
giving  Mathilde  some  directions  in  Italian;  and 
then,  without  looking  at  her  father,  she  crossed  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Having  expected  some  invol 
untary  word  or  sign  indicating  her  desire  not  to  let 
her  first  greeting  go  unmodified,  he  gave  her  a 
curious  look  as  he  saw  her  sticking  to  it.  "Oh, 
Marion!"  he  called. 

She  stopped  and  looked  back. 

"We'll  have  to  fight  it  out — you  and  I,"  he  said 
incisively.  "It  will  be  better  if  we  do  it  at  once." 

She  decided  it  was  too  much  like  an  order  and 
went  on,  followed  by  Mathilde.  "I  shall  be  in  the 
library  a  few  minutes  before  lunch,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  I  am  to  await  your  pleasure  there," 
he  remarked. 

"If  you  choose,"  she  answered,  as  she  disap 
peared. 

He  felt  that  he  had  lost  the  key  to  her  mind. 
"That  seems  to  be  a  high  and  mighty  daughter  of 
yours,  Mrs.  Moulton,"  he  observed.  "I  find  the 
Illinois  legislature  somewhat  easier  to  control." 

He  was  not  in  the  library  when  Marion  came 


THE    CHASM  9 

down.  Rather  than  sit  face  to  face  with  him  at 
table  she  decided  to  have  luncheon  in  her  own 
rooms,  and  telephoned  her  Lady  Diotima  to  come 
quick  and  keep  her  company.  "There  is  war,"  she 
announced.  "I'm  blue  and  lonesome  and  dying  to 
see  you.  I  need  your  moral  support.  I'll  tell  you 
my  troubles  and  I'll  even  let  you  give  me  advice." 

"Will  you  promise  to  follow  it  if  it's  exactly  what 
you  think  yourself?"  Mrs.  Pearson  demanded.  "Oh, 
I  can't  wait  to  see  you,  Marion.  I'll  be  over  in 
stantly." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Lady  Diotima,  coming 
into  the  large,  book-lined  room  which  Marion  called 
her  "lair,"  set  her  eyes  of  unfaded  blue  upon  a 
physically  radiant  creature,  fresh  from  her  bath,  in 
a  silvery-looking  negligee  revealing  white  rondures 
of  throat  and  shoulder.  For  a  moment  the  girl's 
face  glowed  with  welcome  in  the  sumptuous  light  of 
a  drift-wood  fire,  and  then  she  flew  into  the  woman's 
arms  and  hugged  her.  "Oh,  Diotima,  you  are  worth 
all  the  rest  of  America!"  she  crooned.  "I  would 
perish  here  if  it  weren't  for  you !  Do  you  still  love 
me?" 

"Against  my  conscience — yes,  you  vagabond!  You 
deserve  nothing  of  the  sort.  I've  been  shamefully 
neglected — left  here  to  age  and  ossify  with  never  a 
letter  from  Rome — and  all  sorts  of  fascinating 
rumors  unverified." 

"What  has  age  to  do  with  your  young  soul? 
I  won't  waste  breath  apologizing.  You  know  the 
Marionian  psychology  too  well  to  expect  a  letter 
when  you  ought  to  have  it."  She  put  her  arm  around 


10  THE     CHASM 

Lady  Diotima's  shoulder,  intending  to  take  off  her 
mink  stole,  but  forgot  and  let  her  hand  linger  strok 
ing  the  smooth  fur. 

"Eat,  child,"  commanded  Mrs.  Pearson,  tossing 
her  muff  on  the  window-seat  and  taking  off  her 
toque.  "You  must  be  famished." 

"I  am,"  admitted  Marion,  and  seated  herself  at  a 
little  table  set  with  chafing  dish  and  charcoal-heated 
samovar.  The  dark  green  curtain  behind  her  was  in 
shadow,  the  girl  in  firelight.  One  white,  high-heeled 
slipper  was  outlined  in  startling  beauty  on  the  dark, 
highly  polished  floor  that  almost  mirrored  it.  Lady 
Diotima  watched  the  girl's  graceful,  leisurely  hands 
as  she  drew  a  cup  of  tea  and  balanced  across  it  a 
spoon  containing  a  lump  of  sugar  which  she  satu 
rated  with  brandy  from  a  flask  cased  in  silver  filigree, 
and  ignited  with  a  gold-handled  alcohol  lighter. 
Mathilde  carefully  set  for  the  visitor  this  cup  over 
which  the  blue  and  fragrant  flame  danced  as  with 
feet  that  rose  and  fell.  "That's  your  flame-fairy," 
explained  Marion.  "Isn't  he  nice — this  chilly  day?" 

"Charming  as  he  is,  I'm  no  salamander,"  pro 
tested  the  lady.  "He'll  have  to  die  before  I  drink 
him." 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  die.  He  reincarnates  himself  in 
the  tea." 

The  Lady  Diotima  looked  dreamily  at  the  flame, 
then  thoughtfully  at  Marion,  who  glanced  at  Ma 
thilde  and  told  her  she  would  not  be  needed. 

"You  speak  Italian  unconsciously!"  Mrs.  Pear 
son  commented  with  a  little  note  of  envy. 

"Yes,  isn't  that  nice?  I  have  even  accomplished 
the  feat  of  dreaming  in  Italian." 


THE     CHASM  11 

"I  suppose  you've  forgotten  you  learned  your  first 
Italian  phrases  from  my  phonograph?" 

"Could  I  ever  forget  that  mournful  invalid  who 
always  wanted  a  bed  or  a  cab  or  a  room  or  a  doctor 
and  for  twenty-six  lessons  refused  to  eat  one  single 

bite?  Which  reminds  me "  Uncovering  the 

chafing  dish,  she  served  herself  with  creamed  sweet 
breads. 

The  flame-fairy  having  danced  himself  and  his 
sugar  pedestal  away,  Lady  Diotima  turned  so  she 
could  see  the  fireplace  and  the  play  of  light  on  the 
bronze  replica  of  Rodin's  "The  Thinker"  who  sat 
in  silent  power  above  the  tiers  of  books,  and  musing 
sipped  her  tea. 

Twice  in  the  six  years  of  their  intimacy  she  had 
turned  the  current  of  the  girl's  life. 

When  Marion  was  seventeen  her  awakened  na 
ture,  under  her  mother's  influence,  had  thrown  it 
self  ardently  into  one  of  the  modern  cults  of  spirit 
ual  mysticism.  Being  a  rebel  by  nature  the  girl  had 
delighted  in  that  revolt  against  "orthodoxy."  She 
had  attempted  to  convert  Mrs.  Pearson  and  had 
given  her  some  of  the  wonderful  literature  of  her 
cult.  Mrs.  Pearson  began  skillfully  to  preach  the 
beauty  of  accurate  thinking,  with  the  result  that  the 
girl,  fired  with  the  passion  for  study,  had  tutors  to 
prepare  her  for  college  and  became  a  Vassar  grind. 

Contact  with  scholarly  women  developed  a  habit 
of  mind  that  freed  her  from  the  spell  of  the  esoteric, 
but  two  years  of  safe,  sane  Vassar  began  to  make  her 
dull.  Then  the  Lady  Diotima,  named  by  Marion 
after  that  wise  woman  who  was  the  teacher  of 
Socrates,  cried  down  mere  intellect  and  preached 


12  THE     CHASM 

life;  disparaged  knowledge  and  taught  power.  To  be 
a  social,  an  intellectual,  even  a  political  force — a 
power  behind  the  throne — to  have  influence  through 
charm — to  modernize  the  role  of  Madame  Re- 
camier — the  ideal  of  the  old  French  salon — all  this 
the  Lady  Diotima  preached. 

The  two  of  them  tried  it  in  Washington  one  win 
ter — but  not  two.  Not  men,  but  soulless  "interests" 
being  there  the  real  power,  there  was  in  Washington 
no  significant  role  for  a  woman,  however  gifted  with 
beauty  or  brains  or  charm.  Wealth  did  count,  but 
not  for  its  esthetic  use,  the  only  use  that  Marion 
knew  or  cared  for. 

"My  face  is  set  toward  Europe,"  then  said  Mar 
ion. 

Mr.  Pearson's  health  failing,  Lady  Diotima  did 
not  make  the  European  campaign,  and  now,  as  she 
drank  her  tea  she  was  keen  for  history. 

"Marion  Moulton,"  she  broke  out,  "do  you  in 
tend  to  tell  me  of  your  own  free  will  and  accord 
whether  you  are  engaged?  It's  your  last  chance." 

"How  unflattering!"  said  Marion,  buttering  a 
French  roll. 

"Stupid!  Your  last  chance  to  tell — except  under 
torture." 

"Unfortunately  I'm  not — thanks  to  my  tactful 
papa." 

"Do  tell  what  happened." 

"From  the  beginning?" 

"No,  the  end  first.  I  couldn't  stand  the  suspense. 
And  before  you  tell  the  end  tell  me  if  it  is  the  end." 

"Papa  again.  If  I  can  make  him  do  what  he 
should " 


THE    CHASM  13 

"Ah-hem!     Financially?" 

"No,  confound  him!  That's  what  he  thought! 
That's  what  he  took  for  granted.  That's  what  he 
cabled  to  Feodor — right  out  of  a  blue  sky — that 
insulting  assumption.  And  now  you  too  !  I  thought 
you  would  take  it  for  granted  that  I  had  brains 
enough  to  tell  the  difference  between  a  man  and  a 
fortune  hunter!" 

"Well,  well,  Marion,  we  all  know  European 
marriage  customs." 

"The  mistake  you  both  make  is  in  assuming  that 
Feodor  de  Hohenfels  is  a  creature  of  custom.  I 
know  him  and  I  know  myself  and  I  flatter  myself 
I  can  afford  not  to  be  jealous  of  my  own  dot." 

"What  made  your  father  send  this  cablegram?" 

"I  didn't  consider  it  necessary  to  beat  about  the 
bush  with  him.  I  wrote  him  that  De  Hohenfels  had 
made  me  a  proposal  of  marriage  and  I  intended  to 
accept  it.  I  told  him  what  kind  of  a  man  De  Hohen 
fels  was — brilliant,  talented,  a  daring  steeple-chaser, 
good-looking,  influential,  estates  in  Russia,  winter 
residence  in  Rome — a  quaint  old  Palazzo  and  gar 
den,  and  above  all — I  didn't  tell  papa  this — a  man 
who  had  just  about  outlived  his  enthusiasms  when 
he  met  me." 

"And  naturally  they  revived,"  said  Lady  Diotima 
dryly.  "Very  good  incense.  What  form  is  his  re 
vived  ambition  going  to  take?" 

"That  doesn't  particularly  matter.  I'm  told  he 
is  a  wonderful  stylist  in  Russian.  He  could  be  emi 
nent  in  musical  criticism.  He  has  the  position  and 
the  brains  to  make  himself  a  leader  of  the  younger 
nobility.  He  is  a  candidate  for  the  new  Duma  and 


14  THE     CHASM 

may  become  a  power  for  progress  in  Russia." 
"He  certainly  sounds  wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Pear 
son,  trying  to  decide  how  much  allowance  should  be 
made  for  Marion's  friendly  and  imaginative  vision. 
If  the  half  were  true  she  saw  the  futility  of  her  son 
George's  hopes  of  Marion. 

"I  didn't  like  him  a  bit  the  night  I  first  met  him," 
Marion  confided.  "You  see,  mama  and  I  started 
wrong  in  Rome.  Mama  met  one  of  her  old  friends 
whom  she  considered  'most  patrician.'  She  had  mar 
ried  an  Italian.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  believe  in 
the  lady  and  let  her  plan  a  reception  for  us.  We  had 
everything  wrong — wrong  place,  wrong  people, 
people  invited  whom  the  'most  patrician'  person 
imagined  she  knew,  or  her  husband  knew — and  he 
was  a  joke,  and — oh,  it  was  awful !  so  awful  the 
swagger  people  came  for  a  lark — and  De  Hohenfels 
put  them  up  to  that.  Of  course  I  became  aware  of 
his  attitude  as  soon  as  he  was  introduced.  Maybe  I 
didn't  know  the  ropes  of  Roman  society,  but  I 
knew  how  to  deal  with  a  man  who  accepted  my  hos 
pitality  for  the  purpose  of  making  fun  of  it.  He 
thought  he  was  doing  it  so  subtly!  He  was  nice  and 
frank  when  I  cornered  him,  and  you  should  have 
seen  him  make  amends.  He  told  everybody  the 
Titian  American  was  a  social  treasure.  They  who 
came  to  scoff  remained  et  cetera,  and  I  was  not 
butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday.  Little  Marion 
became  the  thing,  was  invited  everywhere,  and  a 
month  later,  with  the  guidance  of  Feodor's  mother, 
the  Countess  Xenia,  and  her  brother  Prince  Razin- 
sky,  we  gave  a  ball — oh,  beautifully  right.  You 


THE     CHASM  15 

couldn't  have  thrown  a  cat  without  hitting  an  ambas 
sador  or  a  prince  or  a  duchess — those  funny  Roman 
nobles,  ruined  in  land  speculation,  who  come  with 
splendid  carriages  and  empty  stomachs." 

"Well,  talk  about  luck!"  exclaimed  Lady  Dioti- 
ma.  "But  you  started  to  tell  me  about  your  father's 
cablegram." 

"In  my  letter  to  papa  I  came  square  out  about 
my  dot.  I  wanted  a  big  one  and  asked  how  big  he 
would  make  it.  I  simply  said  it  was  the  custom  in 
Europe,  and  a  girl  marrying  in  Europe  ought  to  do 
it  right." 

"In  Rome  as  the  Russians  do,"  Mrs.  Pearson 
suggested  sympathetically. 

"Exactly.  What  does  papa  do  but  send  a  cable 
gram  to  mama,  and  get  Feodor's  address;  and  the 
next  thing — I  suppose  the  first  time  Fedya  realized 
there  was  such  a  person  as  papa — came  this  message 
saying:  'Do  not  care  to  purchase  European  title  for 
my  daughter.  Much  obliged  for  offer.'  ' 

"How  did  the  count  take  that?" 

"How  could  he?    It  made  him  furious!" 

"Did  it  make  him  break  things  off  with  you?" 

"Nonsense,  Diotima.  I  simply  couldn't  stand  it. 
It  was  such  a  hopeless,  crude,  horrible,  uncalled-for 
piece  of  impertinence!  If  you  only  knew  how  in 
congruous — that  message  and  that  man!" 

"But  what  happened?  What  did  you  say?  What 
did  you  do?" 

"I  couldn't  say  anything.  I  was  dazed — and 
more  humiliated — more  than  I  shall  ever  allow  my 
self  to  be  again!" 


16  THE     CHASM 

"Was  the  man  angry  with  you?" 

"With  me — no.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  him 
that  day — to  show  papa." 

"Well,  that  was  correct.  Really  I'm  glad  you 
didn't,  but — why  didn't  you?  Your  father  would 
have  respected  both  of  you  for  that.  Now  you  have 
apparently  confirmed  his  suspicions." 

"It  won't  take  me  long  to  disabuse  his  mind  of 
that  particular  delusion." 

"But  how  did  you  leave  things,  Marion?  What 
understanding  have  you  with  De  Hohenfels?" 

"None.  I  simply  fled.  Mother  and  I  left  Rome 
that  night." 

"Well  Marion  Moulton!  You  certainly  did  lose 
your  head.  Do  you  know  what  you  are  here  for?" 

"To  make  papa  take  it  back!"  said  the  girl 
grimly. 


II 

MRS.  MOULTON  interrupted  Lady  Dioti- 
ma's  visit  with  the  information  that  Mar 
ion's  father  was  alone  in  the  library. 

"Did  he  send  for  me?"  the  girl  demanded. 

"No.  He  didn't  even  mention  your  name  all 
through  luncheon,  but  I  know  from  the  quality  of 

the  thought-force  he  radiated  that Would  you 

like  it,  Mrs.  Pearson,  if  you  hadn't  seen  your  son 
for  over  a  year  and  he  refused  even  to  shake  hands 
with  you?" 

"I  am  told  that  even  pugilists  shake  hands  be 
fore  they  fight,"  agreed  Lady  Diotima. 

"Oh,  dear!"  exclaimed  Marion  impatiently.  "I 
do  often  bow  to  custom  and  treat  people  hypocriti 
cally — but  not  papa.  And  not  you,  Lady  Diotima. 
Whenever  I  feel  like  quarrelling  with  you  I  intend 
to  do  it."  She  rose  abruptly.  "I  might  as  well  see 
him  and  have  it  over,"  she  said,  and  called  Mathilde. 
After  promising  Mrs.  Pearson  to  come  to  see  her 
next  day,  Marion  dressed  for  the  afternoon  and 
went  down  to  her  father's  study. 

As  she  entered,  Mr.  Moulton  appeared  to  be  ab 
sorbed  in  the  pages  of  "The  Iron  Age." 

"Am  I  interrupting  you?"  she  inquired. 

17 


18  THE     CHASM 

"Oh,  come  in." 

She  seated  herself  without  hurry  in  the  big  leather 
chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  her  father's  wide,  or 
derly  table.  "I  suppose  we  might  as  well  have  it 
out,"  she  said. 

"Good!  Well,  what  is  it  we  are  to  quarrel 
about?" 

Marion  found  it  difficult  to  avoid  liking  him. 
"As  if  you  didn't  know  perfectly!" 

"You  forget.  I  am  not  the  mind-reading  member 
of  the  family." 

"You  know  you  sent  an  insulting  cablegram  to 
Feodor  de  Hohenfels  and  that  he  and  I  were  on  the 
point  of  engaging  ourselves  to  marry." 

"You  didn't— did  you?" 

"He  would  have  married  me  that  day,  but  I 
wished  first  to  have  him  receive  from  you  a  letter  of 
apology.  I  came  home  to  ask  you  to  write  it.  Will 
you  do  it?" 

"Suppose  I  will  not?" 

"There's  no  use  going  into  that  until  it  is  certain 
you  will  not." 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  find  it  necessary." 

"What,  in  your  opinion,  will  make  it  unneces 
sary?" 

"Your  own  decision  that  I  acted  wisely." 

"Wisely!  You  acted  without  the  slightest  knowl 
edge  of  facts,  persons,  or  circumstances.  You  blazed 
away  with  your  eyes  shut.  You  were  governed  by 
a  provincial  prejudice  against  the  European  nobility 
— some  platitude  you  read  in  a  funny  paper  when  you 
were  a  boy.  If  you  did  things  like  that  in  your  busi 
ness  you'd  be  bankrupt  in  a  week.  You  took  it  for 


THE     CHASM  19 

granted  I  was  a  fool.  I  know  what  kind  of  a  man  a 
man  is.  And  yet  you — five  thousand  miles  away — 
you  over-rule  my  judgment  in  a  case  where  I  have 
all  the  facts  and  you  haven't  one  1" 

"That's  a  good  many  charges  to  answer  all  at 
once,  Marion.  At  least  it  brought  you  home — with 
out  the  gentleman — and  that  was  what  I  wanted." 

"Why  did  you  want  to  play  the  devil  with  my 
life?" 

"In  the  first  place  an  American  girl  is  a  fool  to 
marry  into  nations  that  have  a  lower  ideal  of  women 
than  her  own." 

"Sheer  provincial  ignorance,  I  tell  you.  I  have 
studied  exactly  what  role  a  woman  can  play  here 
and  abroad.  In  America  an  ornament,  in  Europe 
a  power.  I  prefer  to  be  a  power." 

"You  do?  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  That  is  exactly 
what  I  hoped.  I  respect  your  preference.  You 
want  power.  You  are  running  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  for  it.  You  don't  know  exactly  what  it  is  yet, 
but  you  want  it.  You  think  of  it  as  social,  intellec 
tual,  political.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  modern 
world  these  are  merely  the  shadows  of  power.  The 
real  power  is  industrial." 

"Industrial  power  doesn't  happen  to  appeal  to  me 
personally.  I  suppose  it's  a  good  foundation,  but 
need  I  concern"  myself  about  it?" 

Letting  his  finger  slip  from  the  page  it  had  been 
marking,  he  thoughtfully  broke  into  a  tray  the  long 
ash  from  his  cigar,  and  swung  his  chair  to  face  her 
squarely.  "Do  you  know,"  he  asked,  "what  is  hap 
pening  here  in  the  shops  and  offices  of  Moline  and 
Rock  Island — in  all  these  miles  of  factories  that  you 


20  THE    CHASM 

have  looked  at  all  your  life  and  never  seen?  It's  a 
fascinating,  big,  slow  battle  between  various  sets  of 
powerful,  determined  men.  Do  you  know  what  it 
means?  It  means  that  in  a  few  years  one  man  will 
control  the  plow  manufacturing  business  of  the 
United  States.  Every  furrow  that  is  turned  across 
eight  million  farms  will  send  its  share  of  tribute  in 
to  him.  Men  in  mines,  steel-mills,  shops,  men  on 
railroads  and  on  farms,  will  depend  on  him  for  work 
and  life.  Millions  of  men  will  collaborate  in  pour 
ing  in  to  him  a  stream  of  wealth  so  great  the  imagi 
nation  cannot  conceive  it.  If  I  can,  I  am  going  to 
be  that  man.  If  I  am — well,  in  the  natural  course 
of  events  that  stream  of  wealth  will  flow  to  you. 
You — Marion  Moulton!  A  young  lady  who  has 
decided  that  in  America  there  is  no  power  to  be  had. 
She  is  looking  for  it  in  Europe,  in  Rome,  a  city 
whose  chief  industries  are  a  wax  bead  factory  for 
peasant's  rosaries  and  the  business  of  manufactur 
ing  saints'  relics  out  of  mutton  bones." 

11  What  a  view  of  eternal  Rome  I"  Marion  ex 
claimed.  "Oh,  in  spite  of  your  narrowness,  your 
blindness  to  everything  in  life  but  'business,'  you  do 
make  me  feel  how  big  and  real  your  power  is  and 
may  become.  I  suppose  it's  too  bad  I'm  not  a  man. 
But  I'm  not.  You  don't  want  me  to  remain  unmar 
ried  and  go  to  work  in  your  office,  do  you?" 

"I  want  you  to  realize  your  position.  Did  they 
say  nobility  imposes  obligation?  That  motto  has 
died.  The  motto  that  is  alive  to-day  is  this :  Owner 
ship  imposes  obligation.  Your  marriage  is  not,  as 
you  seem  to  suppose,  a  thing  that  concerns  you  alone. 
It  is  of  direct  concern  to  thousands." 


THE     CHASM  21 

"Just  for  curiosity,  Papa, — whom  do  you  want 
me  to  marry?" 

"You  ought  to  know  I  have  no  intention  of  trying 
to  dictate  to  you.  If  you  did  decide  to  carry  out 
your  original  intention  of  marrying  George  Pearson, 
I  should  make  no  objection." 

"When  I  did  think  of  doing  that,  you  said  George 
didn't  have  brains  enough  to  be  a  corporal  of  in 
dustry." 

"I  was  doubtful  about  George's  having  the  head 
to  carry  on  a  great  industry,  but  it  has  recently  de 
veloped  that  Dick  Pearson,  supposed  to  be  in  poor 
health  and  thinking  only  of  retiring  from  business, 
has  really  been  putting  through  some  tremendous 
deals  in  lumber.  The  rise  in  timber  lands  is  going 
to  make  his  holdings  simply  colossal.  The  Pearson 
interests  are  now  so  secure  that "  He  hesitated. 

"That  your  respect  for  George's  brain  power  has 
increased?"  Marion  suggested  innocently. 

He  scrutinized  her,  making  sure  she  was  con 
scious  of  her  irony.  "He  will  have  advisers  and 
managers.  The  Pearsons  are  going  to  have  vast 
capital  to  invest  in  other  lines  than  lumber.  The 
plow  industry  is  attractive.  If  that  capital  should 
back  up  United  States  Plow  we  could  ultimately  ab 
sorb  our  competitors.  We  may  do  it  single-handed. 
But  any  young  person  looking  for  power  should 
consider  attentively  a  proposition  that  would  result 
in  one  of  the  great  fortunes  of  the  modern  world." 

"Don't  you  see  your  inconsistency?"  said  Marion. 
"You  attribute  a  mercenary  motive  to  De  Hohen- 
fels,  reproach  him  for  it,  and  in  the  next  breath  you 
advise  me  to  marry  George  Pearson  for  his  money  1" 


22  THE     CHASM 

"One  of  these  propositions  is  to  your  disadvant 
age,  the  other  to  your  advantage.  I  advise  you  ac 
cordingly." 

"Assuming  that  there's  no  sort  of  advantage  but 
the  economic.  No,  Papa.  You  can  make  business 
your  own  God  if  you  like,  but  you  can't  make  it 
mine." 

"You  are  not  in  a  position  to  assume  ethical  supe 
riority  in  this  matter.  As  a  matter  of  fact  you  have 
no  moral  right  to  throw  away  the  immense  resources 
that  may  be  yours  on  any  little  foreign  landowner." 

"Feodor  de  Hohenfels  is  not  little  in  any  sense 
of  the  word." 

"Economically  he  is  exactly  that.  He  owns  some 
farms  in  Russia.  Perhaps  he  employs  a  villageful 
of  muzhiks  who  scratch  the  ground  with  wooden 
plows.  What  does  it  amount  to?  He  naturally 
will  have  the  prejudices  and  mental  limitations  of 
his  medieval,  land-holding  class." 

Marion  smiled.  "  'Mental  limitations'  sounds 
funny,  Papa,  in  connection  with  the  gentleman  you 
are  talking  about — without  knowing  anything  about 
him.  A  man  has  certain  aspects  besides  the  eco 
nomic.  This  man  is  not  exactly  a  pauper  at  that. 
There  are  several  million  roubles'  worth  of  timber 
lands,  for  instance,  that  make  him  decidedly  richer 
than  I  am,  for  at  present  I  have  nothing.  Of  course 
if  you're  going  to  throw  in  all  the  plows  and  farms 
and  mines  and  things  in  America  that  you  may  own 
some  day " 

The  thrust  angered  Dave  Moulton.  "The  twenty- 
five  odd  million  dollars'  worth  of  them  I  do  at  pres 
ent  own  I  may  feel  compelled  to  place  beyond  the 


THE    CHASM  28 

reach  of  Mr.  de  Hohenfels.  Possibly  if  he  is  given 
to  understand  this,  the  problem  will  solve  itself." 

"There  you  go  again!"  exclaimed  Marion,  spring 
ing  to  her  feet.  "I'd  rather  earn  my  living  by  my 
own  hands  than  be  in  a  position  where  anyone  in 
this  world  can  take  the  right  to  talk  to  me  like  that !" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Marion." 

"If  it's  fool  or  slave,  I  prefer  to  be  fool!" 

"You  needn't  be  either." 

"I  needn't?  Oh,  no !  All  I  have  to  do  is  let  you 
decide  such  little  matters  as  whom  I  shall  marry  and 
whom  not!" 

"You  are  mistaken.  Marry  whom  you  please.  If 
the  man  happens  to  be  one  I  don't  want  in  control 
of  the  United  States  Plow  Company  he  shan't  con 
trol  it — that's  all." 

"The  Count  de  Hohenfels  does  not  happen  to  be 
consumed  with  a  burning  passion  for  the  United 
States  Plow  Company.  It's  very  doubtful  if  he 
knows  there  is  such  a  thing.  It's  that  assumption 
of  yours  which  has  caused  all  the  trouble,  and  I'm 
simply  asking  you  to  straighten  things  out  again  by 
a  letter  to  him." 

"Doesn't  know  there  is  such  a  thing,  eh?  Do  you 
know  we  send  over  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  agri 
cultural  machinery  a  year  through  the  port  of  Riga? 
You'll  find  he  has  read  a  little  something  about  us 
in  Bradstreet's." 

"What's  the  use  of  making  that  statement?  All 
there  is  to  the  whole  question  is  that  you  insulted  us. 
I  want  to  know  whether  or  not  you  are  going  to  be 
decent  and  write  that  letter?" 

"A  letter  of  apology?" 


24,  THE     CHASM 

"Exactly." 

"Which  would  result  in  the  gentleman's  taking 
the  next  steamer  for  America?" 

"I  don't  know  how  it  would  result.  I  do  know 
you  owe  him  that  reparation.  You  owe  it  to  me. 
Can't  you  see  it  doesn't  put  me  in  a  very  good  light 
— your  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  only  reason  a 
man  would  want  to  marry  me  is  for  your  money?" 

"Being  married  for  money  is  a  distinct  danger  of 
any  girl  in  your  position — especially  when  she  de 
velops  an  affair  with  a  man  of  a  notoriously  money 
marrying  class.  The  newspapers  are  full  of  how 
such  marriages  turn  out." 

"The  newspapers  I  Papa,  are  you  going  to  write 
that  letter?" 

"Not  to-day." 

"When  are  you  going  to  write  it?" 

"When  you  tell  me  you'd  rather  have  that  letter 
written  than  inherit  control  of  the  United  States 
Plow  Company." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  that  right  now!"  blazed  Mar 
ion.  "Please  write  the  letter."  She  went  rapidly  to 
the  door. 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Moulton.  "I  do  not 
intend  to  accept  a  decision  of  such  magnitude  made 
by  you  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  in  the  heat 
of  argument.  I  will  accept  no  decision  one  way  or 

the  other  for "  He  glanced  at  the  calendar  on 

his  desk.  "This  is  Tuesday  the  twentieth.  A  fort 
night  is  none  too  much.  You  may  give  me  your  an 
swer  on  April  third,  two  weeks  from  to-day." 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  see  the  letter  before 
you  send  it,"  said  Marion,  and  out  she  walked. 


Ill 

NEVER  in  her  life  having  felt  the  lack  of  it, 
wealth  meant  little  to  Miss  Moulton.  To 
have  every  luxury,  to  do  whatever  one  pleased 
without  reckoning  the  cost,  seemed  simply  the  nor 
mal  state  of  things.  She  had  no  conception  of  the 
thing  she  was  ready  to  throw  away;  and  yet  before 
she  reached  the  end  of  the  hall  as  she  left  her  father's 
study,  she  stopped  with  a  pang.  "Fedya!"  She 
voiced  the  name  involuntarily.  "I  can't  let  you 
marry  me  without  a  penny!"  she  thought.  Walking 
slowly  on,  she  turned  absent-mindedly  into  the  con 
servatory. 

From  the  west,  blown  clear  of  cloud  by  a  north 
west  wind,  the  low  sun  was  sending  red  lances  and 
arrows  of  light  through  fronds  of  palm.  In  front  of 
a  dark  green  wall  of  ferns  a  bed  of  orchids  blazed 
fantastic,  over  rich — a  sense  impression  of  so 
violent  beauty  as  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  girl 
even  with  her  life-problem  burning  in  her  thoughts ! 
She  remembered  a  certain  rustic  seat  and  passed 
down  a  tessellated  aisle  between  fragrant  walls  of 
verdure  and  bloom  that  rose  from  shining  jardi 
nieres  and  trailed  from  hanging  baskets.  From  that 
artificial  splendor  of  sumptuous  nooks  and  graceful 
bowers  she  entered  a  place  of  massive  rocks  and  moss 

25 


26  THE     CHASM 

run  wild  and  great  ferns  growing.  There  was  the 
tinkle  and  gurgle  of  a  rivulet,  a  rustic  bridge,  a  pool 
of  Japanese  pond-lilies. 

With  a  welcome  sense  of  seclusion  she  dropped 
upon  the  rustic  seat  to  think  things  out.  She  was 
wondering  whether  among  her  dabblings  of  art  and 
knowledge  there  was  anything  substantial  enough  to 
make  a  living  for  her.  Hearing  a  curious  swish  near 
a  high  rock  of  an  island  in  the  pond,  she  looked  and 
to  her  amazement  beheld  there,  knee-deep  among 
the  lilies,  a  man  in  shirt-sleeves  and  hip-boots.  He 
was  stooping  over  and  carefully  touching  with  a 
brush  the  center  of  certain  blossoms. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  come  from?"  the 
girl  exclaimed. 

The  man  straightened  up  hastily  and  stared  at  her. 
"Excuse  me  for  having  a  better  right  to  the  ques 
tion,"  he  said.  "I've  been  here  two  hours  on  this 
job." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  her  curiosity  satisfied.  "You're 
one  of  the  gardeners." 

"That's  all,"  said  the  man.  Smiling  privately  at 
his  elimination  in  her  mind  from  the  category  of 
human  beings,  he  resumed  his  occupation. 

Something  in  his  tone  modified  her  preconception 
of  him  as  simply  a  specimen  of  the  genus  gardener, 
but  she  did  not  wish  to  think  about  him.  She  tried 
to  get  back  her  interrupted  train  of  thought,  but 
found  herself  mechanically  watching  the  movements 
of  the  gardener  and  his  brush.  The  result  was  a 
slight  irritation  that  he  should  be  doing  it. 

"Why  are  you  doing  that?"  she  demanded,  not 
really  thinking  of  what  she  was  saying. 


THE     CHASM  27 

"To  cross-fertilize  the  flowers,"  he  answered  with 
out  looking  up. 

She  felt  that  she  had  displayed  her  ignorance, 
and  social  inferior  though  he  was,  she  did  not  care 
to  leave  that  impression  on  the  man.  She  gave  the 
subject  her  full  consideration  for  a  moment,  grop 
ing  among  shadowy  recollections  of  freshman  bot 
any.  "Have  you  ever  looked  at  the  pollen  through 
a  microscope  ?"  Her  malicious  hope  was  that  he  had 
not. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  in  a  matter  of  course  tone. 

Her  failure  to  make  him  feel  ignorant  roused  her 
interest.  The  glance  he  gave  her  seemed  to  be  one 
of  lessening  hostility.  He  drew  a  pocket  lens  from 
his  corduroys,  and  bent  down  with  it  looking  at 
various  flowers.  She  noticed  his  fine  wavy  brown 
hair  and  fair  complexion  slightly  tanned  by  his  arti 
ficial  summer  under  glass. 

"Here's  a  grain  of  pollen  on  the  tip  of  this  pistil," 
he  said.  "It's  likely  to  open  and  send  a  little  liquid 
filament  down  to  the  eggs  of  the  flower.  Would  you 
care  to  watch  it?" 

"Not  having  any  hip-boots  at  hand,  I  think  I 
won't,"  she  answered,  wondering  how  a  man  in  his 
station  had  managed  to  acquire  such  diction. 

He  took  a  knife,  cut  the  stem  of  the  gorgeous  lily, 
brought  it  ashore  to  her,  and  offered  her  the  lens. 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  then  took  the  flower  and 
looked.  The  young  man  went  back  to  his  work 
without  waiting  for  her  comment,  so  she  was  free  to 
forget  him  and  lose  herself  in  contemplation  of  the 
wonderful  structure  and  still  more  wonderful  func-. 
tion  of  that  minute,  amorous  grain  of  living  dust. 


28  THE     CHASM 

She  watched  it  with  real  interest.  When  she  lowered 
the  lens  she  looked  at  the  whole  flower  with  a  new 
wonder — a  sudden  realization  of  the  depth  and 
beauty  of  sex  in  the  life  of  the  world.  "What  a 
pity  the  stem  is  cut!"  she  thought.  "That  wonder 
ful  event  will  do  no  good." 

With  a  start  she  remembered  the  presence  of  the 
gardener,  felt  that  he  was  looking,  glanced  quickly 
to  read  his  expression,  and  to  her  surprise  encount 
ered  an  inadvertent  look  of  sympathetic  understand 
ing.  For  a  purely  human  instant  it  disarmed  her 
and  drew  a  like  look  to  her  eyes.  But  what  right 
had  he  to  understand?  "Very  interesting,  I'm  sure," 
she  said  coldly. 

He  turned  without  answering  and  bent  over  the 
next  lily,  but  she  saw  a  curious  little  smile.  What 
sort  of  man  was  he  anyhow  with  his  rough  hands 
and  scholar's  speech?  Her  eye  went  back  to  the 
lily. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "do  women  ever  do  this  sort 
of  work?" 

"Gardening?  My  mother  has  slaved  at  it  all  her 
life." 

She  dismissed  her  half-formed  idea  that  he  might 
be  a  man  of  good  family  reduced  to  working  his  way 
through  college.  "It  seems  to  me  I  have  heard  of 
girls  fitting  themselves  as  horticulturalists  in  a  col 
lege  founded  by  Lady  Warwick,"  she  mused.  "How 
decent  a  living  could  one  make  at  it  anyway?" 

"At  gardening?"  He  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 
"If  you  think  of  going  into  the  business,  you'd  better 
put  in  plenty  of  capital  and  hire  me." 


THE     CHASM  29 

She  did  not  respond  to  his  humor,  but  as  he  started 
to  laugh  she  noticed  with  approval  his  excellent,  clean 
teeth.  "I  wished  to  know  what  one  could  do  with 
out  capital — by  one's  own  work." 

"Starve,"  said  the  gardener. 

"Indeed?  You  do  not  look  emaciated.  How 
much  do  you  earn  a  month?" 

"I  get  fifty  and  board." 

The  girl's  eyebrows  lifted  at  the  meagerness  of  the 
wage.  Her  own  personal  yearly  expenses  were  sup 
posed  to  be  limited  to  twenty  thousand  a  year.  "Are 
you  the  head  gardener?"  she  pursued. 

"No.    He  draws  a  hundred." 

"And  you  think  that  I,  for  instance,  couldn't  aspire 
to  fifty?" 

"It  takes  physical  strength,"  said  the  man  eyeing 
her  sceptically. 

That  made  little  impression  on  her,  for  she  felt 
that  she  had  it. 

"It  also  takes  patience,"  he  added — "an  ox-like 
physical  endurance  such  as  nothing  in  your  life  can 
possibly  have  given  you."  , 

"Oh,  as  to  that — !"  she  said,  waving  it  aside.  "If 
others  acquire  it,  I  could." 

He  thought  a  moment.  "My  father  and  mother 
have  slaved  at  truck-farming  all  their  lives,  Miss 
Moulton — they  and  their  children — often  sixteen 
hours  a  day  and  sometimes  in  emergencies  twenty 
hours.  They  have  produced  pretty  near  enough  to 
feed  Moline,  and  they  haven't  cleared  fifty  a  month 
year  in,  year  out,  for  the  whole  family.  Of  course  a 
job  like  this — after  a  technical  course  and  some 


SO  THE    CHASM 

years'  experience — you  might  get  a  hundred  raising 
useless  things  for  rich  people  to  look  at  once  or 
twice  a  year." 

Her  expression  hardened  with  dislike  of  his  tone. 

"You  gardening!"  he  repeated,  not  at  all  worry 
ing  about  the  effect  of  his  words  on  her.  "It's  as 
though  a  nightingale  who  could  fill  the  heart  of  the 
night  with  fire  should — want  to  live  in  a  hen-house 
and  lay  eggs  for  somebody's  breakfast." 

Her  mind  drew  from  the  speaker  to  the  poetic 
phrase.  His  voice's  indisputable  knowledge  of  how 
to  give  it  the  value  of  truthful  music  affected  her 
only  unconsciously. 

"What  gives  you  that  romantic  idea — as  to  the 
heart  of  the  night?"  she  said,  her  disparaging  tone 
not  successfully  concealing  the  pleasure  the  romantic 
idea  gave  her. 

"The  things  open  to  you!  Your  boundless  free 
dom  for  development.  Some  who  have  that  have 
nothing  to  develop;  but  it's  evident  that " 

"I  have  no  freedom  whatever!"  she  exclaimed 
bitterly.  "I  was  thinking  of  that  very  thing  when  I 
came  in  here !" 

Seeing  his  interest  in  her  exclamation,  she  pulled 
up,  wondering  how  she  had  come  to  drift  so  far 
into  things  personal.  Her  unconscious  feeling  that 
her  social  superiority  was  too  obviously  secure  to 
bother  thinking  about  or  demonstrating  was  there 
to  reassure  her.  The  man  went  carelessly  on  in  his 
tone  of  dispassionate  analysis.  "Of  course  you 
haven't  much  sense  yet,"  he  said,  " — but  doubt 
less  that's  inexperience." 


THE     CHASM  31 

For  a  moment  Miss  Moulton  was  too  astonished 
to  answer.  "I  admit  that  what  I  am  doing  just  now 
shows  lack  of  good  sense,"  said  she,  scathingly. 

"In  talking  to  me?"  smiled  the  gardener,  straight 
ening  up.  "Oh,  no, — that's  sensible." 

"I  think,"  said  she  with  an  air  of  finality,  "that 
there  is  a  little  too  much  ego  in  your  cosmos." 

"On  the  contrary — to  reverse  your  quotation  of 
Kipling — most  everyone  you  meet  has  so  much  cos 
mos  in  his  ego  that  the  ego  is  all  squeezed  out." 

What  arrested  her  was  the  fact  that  that  very 
thought,  turned  that  very  way,  might  have  come 
from — Feodor  de  Hohenfels!  "One  thing  would 
be  interesting  to  know,"  she  said.  "Did  you  borrow 
that  egoistic  pose  from  someone  you've  heard  or 
from  something  you've  read?" 

"Neither.  Oh,  I  have  read  Max  Stirner  and 
found  him  in  possession  of  a  few  distorted  frag 
ments  of  my  philosophy.  But  it  isn't  an  egoistic 
pose,  Miss  Moulton.  It's  real  egoism." 

The  surprise  of  this  turn  and  his  smile  as  he  said 
it  were  too  much  for  her.  She  had  to  smile  back. 

"I  have  simply  accepted  myself,"  he  explained. 
"Most  people  accept  instead  some  fool  ideal  and 
then  belittle  themselves  for  differing  therefrom.  I 
reflect  that  nature  has  been  twenty  or  a  hundred  mil 
lion  years  or  so  at  the  job  of  making  me  as  I  am.  I'm 
not  egotist  enough  to  frame  up  some  ideal  concep 
tion  of  what  I  should  be  and  imagine  that  shadow 
of  my  brain  superior  to  nature's  actual  achievement 
in  me." 

She  was  silent  following  and  weighing  the  idea. 


32  THE     CHASM 

"Yes,"  she  decided.  "It's  strange,  but  this  man  does 
think  like  Feodor."  And  then  she  asked,  "Have 
you  read  Bernard  Shaw?" 

"Some,"  he  answered. 

"Did  you  learn  that  trick  of  turning  things  inside 
out  from  him?" 

"It  seems  hard  for  you  to  conceive  that  a  man  can 
be  his  own  thinker." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  sudden  respect  of  a 
stung  child  for  a  bee. 

"Your  question,"  he  said,  "entitles  me  to  ask  if 
you  think  when  Shaw  turns  an  old  idea  inside  out 
that  he's  wantonly  twisting  that  he  knows  to  be  true 
into  something  clever  and  different?" 

"My  dear  Mr. "  began  Marion. 

"Bradfield." 

"Thank  you.  Anyone  who  knows  that  a  man  may 
say  a  thing  wittily  and  nevertheless  believe  what  he 
says  will  not  debate  the  banal  question  of  Mr.  Shaw's 
sincerity.  Which  do  you  prefer,  Mr.  Bradfield: 
Shall  I  imitate  you  and  tell  you  plainly  that  I  am  an 
intelligent  person,  or  shall  I  pay  you  the  compliment 
of  supposing  you  able  to  perceive  it?" 

"Hoist  with  my  own  petard!"  chuckled  Mr.  Brad- 
field.  "I  believe  there's  no  one  else  in  Moline  who 
could  have  come  back  at  me  outegotizing  the  egoist." 

She  found  herself  not  resenting  his  putting  him 
self  with  her  in  a  class  from  which  the  rest  of  Moline 
was  somewhat  naturally  excluded.  Feeling  that  she 
might  find  clarification  in  the  atmosphere  of  this  re 
markable  individual,  she  had  a  sudden  instinctive  im 
pulse  to  test  and  seize  and  use  his  thinking  power  as 
a  tool  for  her  own  purposes — very  much  as  her  fam- 


THE    CHASM  S3 

ily  was  using  his  power  of  muscular  labor.  "I'm 
into  this  too  deep  to  back  out  now,"  was  the  way  she 
put  it  to  herself.  "If  you  are  as  clear-headed  a 

person    as    you    think    you    are "    she    began. 

"Please  come  up  out  of  that  pond  and  sit  down  here 
and  tell  me  why  you  said  I  have  no  sense.  If  you 
can  prove  it " 

He  came  ashore.  "Any  one  with  the  enormous 
economic  power  that  will  be  yours — to  talk  of  gar 
dening  for  a  living!"  he  scoffed. 

"Suppose  I  find  the  price  I  must  pay  for  that 
power  too  high?" 

"Well — it  must  be  a  staggering  price  1" 

"Do  you  think  slavery  too  high  a  price?" 

"Slavery!"  he  echoed.  "You  don't  know  what  it 
means!  Go  ask  my  mother  what  it  is!"  After  a 
moment  he  added:  "Your  father's  conditions  are 
nothing  to  the  thing  you  want  to  put  your  neck  into." 

"My  father's  conditions!"  Marion  gasped.  "How 
did  you — what  makes  you  say  that?" 

"An  obvious  inference  from  slavery  as  the  price 
of  economic  power." 

"Do  you  call  that  obvious?  It  strikes  me  as  un 
canny.  Sit  down.  How  much  more  do  you  infer?" 

"More  would  be  guessing."  He  glanced  at  the 
low  sun,  sat  down,  and  turned  down  the  tops  of  his 
boots.  "Still — was  it  some  little  point  of  honor — a 
difficulty  you  could  have  smoothed  out  in  a  minute  if 
it  was  not  for  what  your  friends  call  your  'high 
spirit'?" 

Marion  sat  back  abruptly.  That  letter  she  had 
come  to  America  to  have  written — was  that  so  all- 
important?  Incidentally  Bradfield  no  longer  re- 


34  THE     CHASM 

minded  her  of  Feodor.  The  Russian  prized  that 
same  high  spirit  more  than  anything  else.  It  was 
that  in  her  which  had  attracted  him  and  fired  him 
with  the  passion  of  conquest.  "I  was  high-handed 
with  papa,"  she  thought.  "And  what  did  I  gain 
by  it?  Why  don't  I  steer  straight  for  the  big  thing?" 
Completely  absorbed  in  viewing  the  whole  affair  of 
De  Hohenfels  and  her  father  from  this  sudden  new 
angle,  she  rose  and  started  toward  the  bridge. 

Looking  after  her,  Bradfield  the  gardener 
thought  she  was  going  to  leave  without  another 
word;  but  remembering  him,  she  turned  and,  not 
really  letting  go  the  new  threads  of  her  thought,  she 
murmured,  "That  suggests  things.  Thank  you.  I 
wish  to  think  them  out."  So  she  walked  on  slowly 
out  of  the  gardener's  sight. 


IV 

MARION  showed  a  desire  after  dinner  that 
evening  to  talk  again  with  her  father  on  the 
subject  of  the  letter  to  De  Hohenfels.  Mr. 
Moulton  saw  with  satisfaction  that  it  must  mean 
modification — sooner  than  he  had  hoped — of  her 
demand,  but  he  felt  it  necessary  to  maintain  his  reso 
lution  to  accept  no  answer  before  the  specified  time; 
and  Marion  had  to  resign  herself  to  a  fortnight  of 
unsettledness.  She  chafed  at  what  she  felt  to  be  the 
sheer  tyranny  of  the  unnecessary  delay,  characteriz 
ing  it  as  springing  from  a  senseless,  old-fashioned 
habit  of  parental  rigidity  toward  children. 

The  letters  to  Feodor  which  she  began  were 
necessarily  so  unsatisfactory  that  they  all  went  into 
the  fire. 

Everything  at  Hillcrest  irritated  her.  When  it 
occurred  to  her  the  second  morning  after  her  arri 
val  to  go  to  the  conservatory  and  talk  again  with 
Bradfield,  her  knowledge  that  her  father  would 
neither  understand  nor  sympathize  was  anything  but 
a  deterrent.  And  when  she  began  to  think  of  Brad- 
field,  whom  she  had  left  so  brusquely,  she  became 
really  curious.  He  was  an  unusual  phenomenon  she 
wished  to  understand.  She  decided  to  get  him  talk 
ing,  hear  his  history,  explore  his  range,  and  find  his 

35 


36  THE     CHASM 

limits,  which  were  still  quite  vague  to  her.  She  felt 
that  very  likely  her  first  surprise  at  finding  an  intel 
lectual  man  in  his  station  had  caused  her  to  overesti 
mate  him.  On  her  way  to  the  conservatory,  for  the 
satisfaction  of  her  own,  not  her  father's,  sense  of 
decorum,  she  considered  pretty  carefully  the  tone  she 
ought  to  adopt.  To  treat  him  simply  as  a  gardener, 
she  felt,  would  be  absurd,  since  merely  as  a  gardener 
he  had  practically  no  interest  for  her.  About  right, 
she  decided,  would  be  that  nuance  of  conduct  she 
had  been  taught  to  observe  with  governesses  and 
tutors  and  middle-class  people  of  culture,  not  ser 
vants,  who  for  any  reason  mingle  with  the  family 
yet  are  paid  for  being  there. 

When  Bradfield,  however,  looked  up  at  her,  re 
turning  her  greeting,  from  his  kneeling  posture  be 
fore  a  velvet  slope  of  moss  he  was  creating  on  a  bare 
spot  among  the  rocks,  a  sudden  spirit  of  mischief 
somewhat  disarranged  Miss  Moulton's  predeter 
mined  program. 

"Sir  Oracle,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  amiable  mock 
ery,  "I  think  perhaps  you  did  me  a  service  the  other 
day,  and  for  all  I  know  I  may  now  be  seeking  more 
wisdom." 

"What  shall  I  enlighten  you  about?"  he  inquired, 
straightening  up  on  his  knees. 

"I  haven't  just  decided.  You  disapprove  of  gar 
dening,  so  of  course  I  have  dropped  that.  As  I  re 
member  it  your  alternative  was  to  fill  the  heart  of 
the  night  with  fire.  The  idea  appeals  to  me  re 
markably.  I'm  sure  I  should  like  nothing  better. 
But  on  reflection  I  find  myself  just  a  little  uncertain 
how  it  is  done." 


THE    CHASM  37 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  be  explicit  for  you,"  he  said, 
taking  another  square  of  moss  from  his  basket. 

"Be  so  for  you  then.  How  would  you  go  about 
filling  it?" 

He  took  the  question  seriously — thinking  for  a 
moment. 

"I  suppose  I  would  have  to  go  about  it  mainly 
with  pen  and  ink — I  mean  a  typewriter.  But  meanj 
while  I  would  study,  think,  travel,  observe.  I  would 
get  my  philosophy  down  to  unshakeable  bedrock.  I 
would  stiffen  it  with  multitudes  of  exactly  gauged 
facts.  Above  all — I  would  become  personally  ac 
quainted  with  the  men  in  every  land  who  are  fight 
ing  for  freedom — find  out  what  they  want  done — 
and  help  them  do  it."  For  a  moment  he  was  ab 
sorbed  in  the  vision  of  what  his  life  would  be  if  he 
had  her  opportunity.  The  ring  in  his  voice  as  he 
spoke  of  the  fight  for  freedom  must  have  stirred 
something  deep  in  her,  for  he  heard  her  saying  self- 
unconsciously: 

"My  version  of  that  feeling  seems  narrower  but 
more  definite — to  rouse  and  guide  the  ambition  of  a 
gifted  man  adrift  on  life :  to  waken  him  into  a  power 
for  the  liberalization,  not  of  every  land,  but  of  one 
belated  country — Russia." 

"The  liberalization  of  Russia?"  said  Bradfield 
dubiously. 

"Yes.    To  transform  it  into  a  free  government." 

"Like  ours?" 

Her  mind  busy  with  his  trend,  she  seated  herself 
sidewise  on  the  rustic  bench  and  turned  looking  over 
the  back  of  it  to  talk  to  him — the  whole  graceful 
process  the  flower  of  long  training  become  uncon- 


38  THE    CHASM 

scious.  "I  suppose  you  think  liberalizing  Russia  as 
much  too  big  as  gardening  is  too  small,"  she  said. 

"No.    I  am  thinking  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while." 

She  repeated  that  phrase  in  amazement. 

"You  see  only  the  outward  form,  not  the  substance 
of  modern  tyranny,"  he  explained,  going  on  with  his 
work.  "The  men  in  your  father's  mills — and  the 
men  who  are  not  allowed  to  work  in  them — are  op 
pressed  with  the  real  oppression,  which  is  economic. 
The  people  of  Russia  would  be  practically  no  better 
off  under  a  republic  if  all  the  sources  of  wealth  re 
mained  as  now  both  in  Russia  and  America,  in  the 
hands  of  a  few." 

"You  don't  know  Russia,  my  friend,  or  you  would 
not  talk  like  that." 

"I  know  America,  though,  and  you  do  not." 

"Don't  you  think  that  rather  arrogant?  I  have 
lived  most  of  my  life  in  America.  I've  kept  my  eyes 
open  and  have  thought  some.  How  comes  it  that 
you  know  America  and  I  do  not?" 

"Because  you've  not  had  to  know  it.  I  have.  You 
and  your  friends  have  tabooed  the  subject  of  the 
people's  misery.  You  live  like  the  uncaring  gods  of 
Epicurus — in  places  like  this."  The  fernery  was 
full  of  gorgeous  glooms  and  gleams,  ripplings  and 
tinklings  of  sound  and  light.  "You  never  see  the 
unbeautiful  homes  of  the  workmen  who  make  this 
beauty  possible,"  he  said.  "If  you  did,  you'd  think 
their  squalor  good  enough.  Where  they  are  con 
cerned  you  are  afflicted  with  the  myopia  of  your 
class,  whose  dominance  is  based  on  systematic  injus 
tice  to  mine." 

"I  simply  don't  believe  it,"  said  Marion. 


THE     CHASM  39 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  don't?"  said  he,  forget 
ting  moss.  "Because  the  class  philosophy  you  have 
breathed  since  babyhood  is  full  of  lies  born  of  your 
class-interests — the  self-interest  of  profit-taking  men 
and  dividend-spending  women.  Dividends  are  holy 
things — not  to  be  cut — no  matter  how  much  or  how 
wide-spread  suffering  it  costs  to  maintain  them.  You 
bourgeois  have  believed  your  own  lies  about  this 
condition  until  you  have  lost  the  power  of  seeing 
straight  in  anything.  The  foggy,  new  religions  you 
go  wild  over  prove  the  decadence  of  your  intellect. 
You  affect  looking  down  on  intellect — it  is  so  dead 
against  you.  Whatever  you  deal  with  you  show 
yourselves  muddleheads.  We  workers  see  things 
straight.  We  have  to.  Economic  pressure  imposes 
the  habit  on  us.  We  are  up  against  hard  facts  that 
can't  be  Christian-scienced  out  of  existence.  Nietz 
sche  talks  about  the  splendid  tension  of  the  human 
spirit  resulting  from  the  effort  of  Europe  to  throw 
off  the  yoke  of  ecclesiasticism.  That  tension's  noth 
ing  to  ours — our  effort  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  eco 
nomic  slavery.  There's  the  real  splendor  of  the 
human  spirit  in  our  time.  You  will  see  it  burst  out 
before  you  die."  He  rose  from  his  knees  and  came 
toward  her.  She  had  a  little  sense  of  his  having 
dramatically  assumed  the  role  of  protagonist  of  his 
class,  yet  neither  that  nor  the  fact  that  he  was  ad 
dressing  an  audience  of  one  in  cadences  approaching 
those  of  public  speaking  seemed  odd  enough  to  her 
to  spoil  his  effect.  "We  who  have  borne  the  burden 
of  the  world,"  he  said,  " — did  you  think  we  would 
not  grow  strong?  When  we  had  to  think  ourselves 
out  of  your  false  view  of  life  or  perish,  did  you  sup- 


40  THE    CHASM 

pose  we  wouldn't  learn  to  think?  We  were  forced  to 
forge  intellectual  weapons  for  your  overthrow  or 
be  ground  down  out  of  existence.  Naturally  we 
forged  them.  We've  come  free  of  your  lies  with 
a  burning  love  of  truth;  we've  survived  your  injus 
tice  with  a  burning  love  of  justice.  On  truth  and 
justice  and  the  brotherhood  we  have  learned  in 
misery  we  will  build  a  world  a  thousand  times  better 
than  yours — even  for  you  whom  we  shall  overthrow ! 
On  our  foundation  you  shall  see  a  human  civilization 
lift  into  more  than  Athenian  beauty  and  perfection! 
For  the  first  time  since  the  communes  of  savagery 
the  economic  basis  of  life  shall  be  right — and  with 
our  power  enlarged  from  stone  axe  to  steam-ham 
mer.  .  .  .  Our  power,  mind  you.  Not  Dave  Moul- 
ton's,  and  not  yours!" 

"You  are  really  a  poet,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  said  the 
girl,  so  little  affected  by  the  substance  of  his  speech 
that  she  was  free  to  admire  the  passionate  vigor  of 
his  expression. 

"And  if  I  am !  Do  you  think  so  little  of  the  poets 
as  to  oppose  our  vision  to  fact?" 

"I  naturally  can't  help  seeing  that  you  overlook 
some  large  facts,"  said  Marion  calmly.  "If  it  was 
n't  for  my  father's  factories,  for  instance,  the  men 
there  whom  you  think  so  oppressed  would  not  have 
the  work  they  have  nor  draw  the  thousands  of  dol 
lars  they  get  for  doing  it." 

"Do  you  know  your  father  sells  a  plow  costing 
him  seven  and  a  half  for  labor  and  material,  for 
thirty-five  dollars?  Do  you  know  he  has  crushed 
the  unions  which  stand  for  a  little  better  pay,  a  little 


THE     CHASM  41 

better  hours,  a  little  better  life  for  all  these  working- 
men?  Do  you  know  these  workingmen  receive  less 
than  one-fifth  the  value  of  their  labor?" 

"I  don't  know  just  what  proportion  of  the  total 
value  they  receive.  Did  these  workmen  buy  the  steel 
and  wood  to  make  the  plows  of?" 

"No,  the  steel  was  mined  and  made,  the  wood  cut 
and  sawed  by  other  workers  who  received  only  a 
fraction  of  the  value  they  created  out  of  the  natural 
earth." 

"Why  didn't  your  workers  organize  the  United 
States  Plow  Company  themselves?  Why  did  they 
leave  that  to  my  father  and  grandfather?" 

"The  time  was  not  then  ripe.  They  had  not 
learned  to  work  together  in  great  factories.  They 
know  how  now.  Your  grandfather  did  perform  a 
service  to  society.  Was  it  so  great  that  society 
should  give  him  and  his  heirs  forever  despotic  power 
over  its  labor  and  life?  Only  a  tiny  fraction  of  the 
human  energy  of  brain  and  muscle  that  built  these 
factories  and  constructed  this  machinery  was  his. 
The  savage  who  first  used  fire,  perhaps  a  thousand 
centuries  ago,  helped  him  to  make  his  plow.  Archi 
tects  and  wage-workers  built  the  factories;  inventors, 
designers,  and  wage-workers  made  the  machinery. 
Thousands  of  men  have  been  forced  to  content  them 
selves  with  a  pittance  for  creating  the  wealth  with 
which  the  Moultons  bought  factories." 

She  was  certain  the  Moultons  ought  to  have  the 
factories,  but  could  not  lay  hold  of  a  good  reason 
why.  "How  far  back  do  you  go  with  that?"  she 
asked.  "To  the  Norman  Conquest?" 


42  THE     CHASM 

"I  could  go  back  to  a  much  older  war  fought  with 
flint-tipped  arrows  and  stone  celts.  The  Moulton 
of  that  time  was  a  war-chief,  who,  instead  of  din 
ing  on  a  captive,  set  him  to  work  and  dined  through 
out  the  year  on  the  fruits  of  that  work.  Slavery, 
serfdom,  wage-work — the  last  method  of  living  off 
the  labor  of  other  men  is  an  improvement  on  all 
others — from  the  point  of  view  of  the  exploiters." 
He  laughed,  and  went  back  to  his  basket  of  moss. 

"You  seem  to  be  equipped  with  a  very  elaborate 
perversion  of  the  true  relations  between  labor  and 
capital." 

"That's  funny,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  really  see 
that  the  economic  interest  of  your  class  inclines  you 
to  look  on  relations  very  advantageous  to  capital 
and  very  disadvantageous  to  labor  as  'true'?  My 
economic  interest  and  that  of  my  class  makes  me 
brand  these  same  relations  as  rotten." 

"Let  me  point  out  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  ab 
stract  truth — what  the  French  call  the  true  truth — 
which  is  neither  your  point  of  view  nor  mine,  but 
simply  true." 

"Into  the  blue !"  he  exclaimed.  "A  truth  different 
from  what  L  think,  and  from  what  you  think,  and 
from  what  every  other  human  being  thinks — existing 
in  no  brain — where  does  it  exist?  What  good  is  it 
anyhow?  In  reality  there  is  only  you  and  me  and 
what  facts  force  us  to  believe.  That  is  the  true  truth." 

She  weighed  that  a  moment.  "You  may  be  right 
about  that,"  she  said.  "Suppose  you  are  also  right 
about  slavery,  serfdom  and  wage-work.  Do  you 
think  you  can  overthrow  these  laws  of  life — the  law 
of  stronger  and  weaker — which,  according  to  your 


THE     CHASM  43 

own  view  of  history,  has  been  working  among  men 
since  the  age  of  stone?" 

"Not  permanently.  The  present  system  has  tem 
porarily  set  that  law  aside  since  a  stupid  man  with 
capital  is  at  present  much  more  than  a  match  eco 
nomically  for  a  keen-minded  man  without  it.  But 
my  analysis  of  history  shows  me  that  the  same  eco 
nomic  laws  that  have  made  the  slave  a  serf  and  the 
serf  a  wage-worker  are  going  to  make  the  wage- 
worker  his  own  boss." 

"Then  what  will  make  him  work?" 

"What  makes  your  father  work?" 

"He's  an  unusual  man." 

"Well,  I'll  grant  that.  He  happens  to  be.  But 
suppose  just  usual  men,  the  workers,  owned  all  the 
factories  in  common.  Can  you  imagine  them  stand 
ing  outside  the  closed  doors  of  their  own  factories 
suffering,  perhaps  dying,  for  lack  of  the  things  their 
factories  can  produce?  No.  All  there  is  to  it  is 
this :  At  present,  ignorant,  narrow  and  small-souled 
as  the  view  of  your  class  is,  you  have  the  power  to 
enforce  it.  You  capitalist  plutocrats  had  to  over 
throw  the  feudal  aristocrats  to  get  the  power  you 
have.  Very  well.  As  you  overthrew  them,  we  social 
democrats  will  overthrow  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Marion.  "Are  you  a  socialist?"  She 
looked  at  him  curiously.  "I'm  not  sure  I  ever  saw  a 
real  live  one  before." 

"I'll  not  be  the  last  one  you  see." 

"Very  likely  not.  I  understand  socialism  is  grow 
ing.  But  do  you  really  imagine,  Mr.  Bradfield,  that 
in  Europe  the  landed  aristocracy  has  no  power?" 

"Only  in  so  far  as  the  aristocrats  are  capitalists. 


44  THE     CHASM 

Aristocracy  is  a  survival — like  the  vermiform  appen 
dix.  That's  why  you  doom  yourself  to  futility  when 
you  attempt  to  galvanize  your  Russian." 

"How  many  European  nobles  have  the  honor  to 
be  acquainted  with  you,  Mr.  Bradfield?  Do  you 
realize  what  a  cock-sure  theorizer  you  are?  It  hap 
pens  that  the  brain  of  the  Russian  nobleman  I  was 
thinking  of  glows  with  magnificent  life.  His  mind 
is  like  a  bed  of  orchids." 

Bradfield  was  evidently  impressed  for  a  moment, 
and  then  his  eyes  narrowed  keenly.  "Why  does  he 
need  so  much  rousing,  and  guiding,  and  waking?"  he 
asked.  "Did  you  say  he  was  adrift  on  life?  Why  is 
he  adrift?  The  Russian  revolutionists  are  not  drift 
ing.  Neither  are  the  rulers.  They  are  real — they 
stand  for  something  vital,  they  know  what  they 
are  doing.  But  your  landed  young  gentleman  who 
is  to  'liberalize'  the  Russian  Government !  The  peas 
ants  of  the  mir  on  his  estate  will  make  new  Russia — 
not  he." 

"I've  heard  that  prophecy  is  a  risky  business,"  she 
said,  not  caring  to  discuss  De  Hohenfels  with  Brad- 
field. 

"What  is  his  attitude  toward  the  Russian  'lower 
classes'?"  pursued  Bradfield. 

"I  suppose  he  considers  most  of  them  ignorant  and 
fanatical." 

"Risky  it  may  be,  but  I  think  I  can  make  a  pretty 
fair  forecast  of  his  fate,  and  yours  if  you  marry  him. 
I  do  not  think  you  and  he  will  fill  the  heart  of  the 
night  with  fire.  You  will  certainly  not  liberalize 
Russia,  and  if  you  did  it  would  do  no  good.  The 
Russian  revolution,  the  rising  of  peasant  and  worker 


THE     CHASM  45 

— whose  interests  are  antagonistic  to  yours — with 
that  new-found,  passionate  religion  they  call  Solid 
arity,  they  will  sweep  you  away  like  chaff!" 

"How  very  exultant  the  idea  makes  you,"  said  she, 
smiling.  "Well,  you  are  interesting,  Mr.  Bradfield. 
You  really  are  an  amazing  gardener."  His  expres 
sion  hardened — in  a  reaction  against  her  patronizing 
tone.  "But  do  you  know,"  she  added  quickly,  "I 
can't  see  such  a  vast  difference  between  your  rhap 
sodies  and  those  of  the  new  religionists  you  are  so 
scornful  of." 

"They  may  be  alike  in  fervor.  The  difference  is 
that  mine  are  based  on  close  analysis  of  human  his 
tory,  on  economic  science,  on  real  psychology.  Theirs 
are  based  on — wind.  If  you  can't  see  the  differ 
ence !" 

"It  must  be  because  I  belong  to  a  muddle-headed 
class,  Mr.  Bradfield.  Do  let  it  be  my  class !  It  is  so 
much  more  comforting  to  blame  the  others  for  it!" 

"It  is  your  class.  You  are  the  most  intelligent 
member  of  it  I  have  ever  met.  You  are  the  only 
bourgeois  person  I  know  that  I  like." 

"Thank  you.  It  happens,  however,  that  I  am  not 
a  'bourgeois  person.'  The  phrase  sets  my  teeth  on 
edge." 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "I  see,"  he  said. 
"The  class  feeling  of  the  aristocracy.  But  consider 
the  angle  from  which  I  look.  Aristocrat  and  bour 
geois  are  alike  exploiters  of  us.  Now  we  begin  tak 
ing  the  reins  of  the  world  from  you,  you  are  uniting 
against  us — like  you  and  your  Russian.  In  a  few 
years  you  will  be  one  class." 

"Wrong,"    she    said,    exulting    because    he    was 


46  THE     CHASM 

wrong.  "I  hated  all  that  was  bourgeois — in  ethics 
and  wall-paper,  literature  and  hair-dressing — years 
before  I  came  in  contact  with — the  aristocracy." 
She  expected  Bradfield  to  catch  the  little  turn  and 
smile  back  at  it;  but  he  was  busy  with  a  new  idea  of 
his  own.  Till  then  he  had  taken  for  granted  an  im 
passable  chasm  between  them. 

"You  hate  the  bourgeois  instinctively?"  he  pon 
dered.  "Why  is  that?  And  you  talk  of  gardening 
— of  earning  your  own  living.  Is  it  something 
deeper  than  I  thought  in  you?  Is  it  possible  that 
some  day  you  will  be  coming  to  us?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  wouldn't  think  so  if  you  were  the  ordinary 
brainless  society  girl.  You  think.  You  feel.  You're 
big  enough  to  rise  above  your  class  ethics — or  you 
wouldn't  be  talking  to  me.  In  spite  of  your  wealth 
— why,  you  have  even  felt  in  a  pale  way  the  lack 
of  economic  freedom!  I  think  you  should  be  com 
ing  to  us — toward  democracy,  instead  of  away  from 
it.  Believe  me — only  on  our  side  will  you  find  the 
kind  of  life  you  crave — the  spirit  you  love!" 

"Just  what  kind  of  life  and  spirit  do  you  take 
that  to  be,  Mr.  Bradfield?" 

"The  life  of  useful  work  and  the  spirit  of  com 
radeship." 

"Awhile  ago  you  were  scornful  because  I  wanted 
to  find  useful  work." 

"Yes,  at  the  present  degrading  price  of  human 
labor  power,  someone  else  taking  the  greater  part  of 
the  value  of  your  labor.  That  will  not  be  so  when 
we  workers  adjust  the  work  and  wealth  of  the 
world  to  our  own  needs." 


THE     CHASM  47 

"Are  you  talking  of  your  grandchildren?"  she  in 
quired.  "And  comradeship !  Have  you  the  spirit  of 
comradeship  toward  us — whom  you  regard  as  your 
enemies?" 

"No,  not  now.  How  can  we?  But  there  are  very 
few  of  you — fewer  all  the  time  as  wealth  concen 
trates.  Out  of  eighty  millions  in  this  country  not 
quarter  of  a  million.  One  in  four  hundred.  But 
you  own  everything.  You  hold  everything  we  must 
have  to  work  with — to  live.  You  own  our  working 
power — mental  and  manual.  We  have  to  sell  it  to 
you  or  starve.  You  own  us.  You  use  us  solely  for 
your  benefit,  not  ours.  We  have  to  fight  you.  After 
we  have  taken  away  your  power  to  rob  us — we  will 
have  no  reason  to  exclude  you  from  comradeship." 

"You  have  your  narrowness,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
imagine  that  we — the  people  you  now  exclude — do 
you  really  think  we  know  nothing  of  comradeship?" 

"Not  for  us.  Not  for  three  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  four  hundredths  of  the  people  in  America." 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  the  girl.  She  looked  him 
full  in  the  eyes  but  met  there  the  glint  of  a  conviction 
stronger  than  her  own.  "How  shall  I  make  you  feel 
it?"  she  exclaimed.  An  unaccountably  vivid  desire 
to  shake  his  grip  on  that  hostile  conviction  became 
momentarily  the  most  essential  thing  in  the  world. 
She  was  leaning  unconsciously  toward  him,  exerting 
all  the  personal  attraction  of  her  serious  eyes  and 
earnest  voice.  Suddenly  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  He  looked  surprised,  took  her  hand  uncer 
tainly,  and  through  his  eyes  she  saw  his  grip  on  his 
idea  relax — his  attention  wavering  toward  the  charm 
of  her  gesture  and  the  delicate,  nervous  shock  of 


48  THE    CHASM 

her  smooth  hand  in  his.  "You  are  one  man  in  a 
thousand,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  she  said  warmly.  uYou 
have  plenty  of  ability.  Lift  yourself  out  of  the  class 
in  which  you  happen  to  have  been  born." 

He  dropped  her  hand  abruptly.  "On  a  ladder  of 
my  own  people's  faces!"  he  cried  with  scorn.  "No, 
I  prefer  to  help  lift  the  class  in  which  I  was  born!" 

She  drew  back.  "What  folly  to  look  at  it  so!" 
she  exclaimed,  vexed  with  his  rude  repulse  of  an  ad 
vance  she  felt  to  be  magnanimous.  "Well  then — 
stay  down!" 

"No!"  said  he.  "I  will  come  up  with  the  other 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine!" 

"Try  it  and  see!" 

"We  are  not  merely  trying — we  are  doing  it." 

"A  little  too  unselfish  of  you  for  this  world  as  it 
is,"  she  said,  wishing  she  could  lay  hold  of  some 
thing  that  would  really  cut. 

"This  world,  Miss  Moulton,  shall  not  remain  as  it 
is.  We  are  not  content  with  a  mere  mournful,  in 
active,  poetic  wish  that  we  might  'grasp  this  sorry 
scheme  of  things  entire !'  We  will  grasp  it.  We  will 
shatter  it  to  bits.  We  will  'remold  it  nearer  to  the 
heart's  desire'!" 

"You  seem  very  sure  of  your  ability  to  do  a  very 
big  thing." 

"As  individuals  we  could  not  do  it.  As  a  class  we 
can." 

"A  whole  class  of  heaven-stormers?" 

"Not  at  all.  Our  energy  is  not  directed  impo- 
tently  against  God.  We  have  discovered  that  he  is 
not  the  responsible  party.  And  you  needn't  worry 
about  our  being  too  unselfish.  To  labor  for  the 


THE    CHASM  49 

super-enrichment  of  you  owners — that's  rank  unsel 
fishness.  What  unites  us  is  self-preservation.  We 
are  true  to  our  class  because  we  have  solved  for  our 
selves  the  problem  of  alter  and  ego.  We  know 
towards  whom  and  what  we  must  act  egotistically 
and  where  to  use  our  altruism.  Light  like  ours  burns 
only  as  a  torch  in  the  open  night.  We've  seen  too 
many  labor  leaders  use  their  torch  for  the  illumina 
tion  of  some  private  bushel.  They  take  place  and 
pelf  and  subtler  bribes — seats  at  a  banquet — the 
privilege  of  speaking  to  exquisite  women  like  you. 
And  their  souls — go  out!" 

"You're  not  absurd  enough  to  suppose  I  am  trying 
to  bribe  you  with  my  companionship  !"  She  laughed. 

"Not  consciously.  But  do  you  suppose  the  class- 
soul — the  social  group  of  which  you  are  one  compo 
nent  molecule — does  not  use  you  and  daily  work 
through  you  in  a  thousand  ways  you  do  not  under 
stand?" 

She  had  a  glimpse  of  his  vision.  Since  he  dropped 
her  hand  she  had  tried  to  hurt  him,  to  make  him  feel 
foolish,  to  shake  his  faith  in  his  ideas.  Whether 
they  were  true  or  not  did  not  concern  her  so  much 
as  her  desire  to  loosen  his  grip,  to  weaken  him  with 
self  doubt.  Each  utterance  had  been  a  conscious 
thrust  of  her  will  seeking  to  break  his.  He  had  dealt 
with  these  hostile  volitions  merely  as  ideas,  uncon 
scious  of  the  easily  adequate  action  of  his  own  resist 
ing  will.  She  gave  it  up.  "It's  a  little  uncanny,"  she 
said.  "For  a  moment  then  I  felt  that  I  was  not  just 
plain  me  as  I  comfortably  supposed,  but — the  tip 
of  a  social  tentacle  stretched  out  here  to  you — the 
tentacle  of  another  octopus." 


50  THE     CHASM 

"Your  octopus  very  small  and  quick  and  open- 
eyed,"  he  said,  his  fancy  kindling  from  hers.  "Mine 
gigantic  and  slow  and  blind.  Yours  draining  three- 
quarters  of  the  blood  of  mine.  Mine  painfully 
aware  of  that  weakening  drain  and  slowly  opening 
its  long-closed  eyes — to  see!" 

A  slight  shudder  ran  through  her.  "No,"  she 
said,  after  a  moment.  "I  refuse  to  believe  the 
beautiful  world  we  live  in  is  based  upon  any  such 
hideous  struggle.  These  social  octopuses  are  not 
real.  Awhile  ago  you  said  yourself:  'There  is  only 
you  and  me  and  what  we  believe.'  ' 

"You  and  me — and  the  other  yous  and  mes, 
A  while  ago  I  merely  denied  concreteness  to  an  ab 
stract  idea.  But  these  classes,  of  which  you  and  I 
are  at  present  tentacle  tips,  are  concrete  groups  of 
human  individuals.  The  class  has  no  existence  in 
dependent  of  its  component  members.  But  the  mem 
bers  are  grouped  in  certain  economic  and  social  rela 
tions  to  each  other.  A  generation  dies  away  atom 
by  atom,  and  the  new  generation  takes  its  place  atom 
by  atom,  maintaining  the  old  relations.  These  re 
lations,  changing  slowly,  are  the  growing  structure 
of  the  social  organism." 

"The  social  organism!  You  were  claiming  two — 
two  distinct  and  hostile  organisms — your  class  and 
mine.  Which  is  it — one  organism  or  two?"  She 
thought  she  had  him. 

"A  half-split  ameba  may  be  regarded  as  one  or 
ganism  or  two,"  he  said.  "Likewise  a  society  split 
into  classes.  When  our  class  has  absorbed  yours 
there  will  be  no  doubt  about  social  solidarity." 


THE     CHASM  51 

"And  suppose  we  object  to  absorption  so  vigorous 
ly  that — you  fail?" 

"We  are  the  immense  majority.  What  shall  stop 
us?" 

"Possibly  the  immense  majority's  immense  stupid- 
ity." 

"The  nail  on  the  head.  But  events  are  teachers 
that  reach  even  the  deaf.  Stupid  or  not,  I  think 
our  desire  for  the  wealth  we  create  will  finally  prove 
stronger  and  better  based  than  your  desire  for  It." 

"Please,  sir,  I'm  sorry,"  said  she,  tired  of  seri 
ousness,  "but  I  didn't  know  I  had  a  desire  for  the 
wealth  you  create." 

"No,"  he  answered,  refusing  to  follow  her  make- 
believe  that  she  was  a  schoolchild  answering  her 
teacher.  "You've  accepted  your  dividends  as  un 
thinkingly  as  you  accept  the  philosophy  that  justi 
fies  them.  How  much  do  you  spend  a  year?" 

"Do  you  know  that's  an  awfully  impertinent  ques 
tion?"  " 

"You  didn't  think  so  the  other  day  when  you 
asked  it  of  me.  And  just  now  the  question  seems 
pertinent  to  the  argument." 

"I'm  not  arguing.  It's  you.  I've  never  thought 
about  these  things  you  insist  upon  talking  about.  I 
hate  arguments  anyway."  She  felt  like  crying. 

"You're  not  the  only  one,  Miss  Moulton.  It's  a 
peculiarity  that  appears  whenever  a  defender  of  the 
existing  industrial  system  tries  to  meet  the  socialist 
argument.  They  never  meet  it.  They  evade  it. 
They  misstate  it.  They  talk  about  something  else. 
You  have  done  splendidly." 


52  THE     CHASM 

"The  idea  of  your  patronizing  me!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"You  began  by  patronizing  me !"  he  retorted. 

"Aren't  you  hateful  to  me!"  she  protested.  And 
then,  mentally  criticizing  her  tone,  she  grew  con 
scious  of  the  fact  that  she  had  become  almost  incap 
able  of  treating  this  ungentle  man  in  any  other  way 
than  as  an  equal.  "I  am  going,"  she  said  abruptly. 
As  soon  as  she  spoke  she  looked  furtively  to  see  if 
he  would  be  sorry. 

"Just  one  more  light  on  the  bourgeoisie  before 
you  go,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  resentfully.  "So  full  of  your 
own  precious  ideas,  you  don't  care  whether  I  go  or 
not!"  she  thought.  She  had  noticed  the  lily  he  had 
cut  for  her  two  days  before  lying  withered  on  the 
seat. 

"You  hate  bourgeois  ethics  and  wallpaper  and 
literature,  Miss  Moulton,"  he  went  on,  "but  you 
forget  to  hate  the  thing  that  shapes  its  hateful  ideals 
and  tastes.  The  way  it  gets  its  living.  There  is  the 
root  of  all  its  sordid  soul  and  all  its  ugly  evil.  Not 
money  itself,  as  the  Christians  superficially  thought, 
but  the  way  you  private  owners  of  the  world's 
wealth-creating  machinery  suck  profit  from  the  over 
worked  and  joyless  lives  of  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren  who  have  to  work  for  you — or  starve." 

"I  guess  you're  hopeless,"  thought  Marion.  The 
question  "Have  you  ever  been  in  love?"  formed  it 
self  in  her  mind,  but  she  suppressed  it,  rose,  and 
started  across  the  bridge.  Bradfield  rose  and  stood 
looking  after  her  from  among  the  rocks  and  ferns. 

"Goodbye,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  she  called  back. 


THE     CHASM  53 

"Goodbye,  Miss  Moulton."  His  tone  had  finally 
changed — and  very  much. 

She  stopped  and  looked  back.  "Oh,"  said  she 
with  an  air  of  surprise,  "are  you  really  human?" 
He  was  puzzled — a  sight  that  delighted  her  soul, 
and  she  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  bluntly. 

She  stopped.  "If  you  don't  understand,  you 
should  have  the  grace  to  think  it  your  fault,  not 
mine." 

"But  it  isn't,"  he  said. 

"Isn't  it?    Think  it  over." 

"Think  over  the  intentionally  obscure  expression 
of  some  perfectly  simple  idea !" 

"You  analytic  wretch!"  thought  she.  "How  you 
do  refuse  to  play!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  going 
to  wish  that  sometime  we  might  meet  and  contrive  to 
talk  something  else  besides  socialism,  but " 

"I'll  talk  anything  on  earth,"  he  interrupted. 
Then  as  an  after-thought,  with  a  secret  thrill  at  his 
own  boldness,  but  saying  it  anyway,  he  added, 
" if  it  is  with  you!" 

"Oh,  did  you  know  you  were  with  me?  I  thought 
you  were  conversing  merely  with  a  social  tentacle. 
I  feel  like  coming  back,  now  you've  stopped  arguing 
and — admitted  my  personal  existence.  But  be  care 
ful.  Perhaps  you  are  being  bribed!" 

She  went  at  once,  afraid  if  she  gave  him  the  chance 
that  he  would  pick  loose  or  break  the  subtle  little 
knots  with  which  she  had  momentarily  enmeshed 
him. 


THE  virtues  of  the  absent  Feodor?"  inquired 
Lady  Diotima,  breaking  into  Marion's  rev 
erie  one  evening  before  the  Pearson  hearth- 
fire. 

The  girl  started.  "No,"  she  answered.  "I  was 
thinking  about  a  man  I've  been  seeing  lately." 

"So  soon?" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him  that  wayl"  Her 
disclaimer  instantly  striking  her  as  unnecessary, 
Marion  blushed;  then  menaced  her  hostess.  "I've 
half  a  mind  not  to  tell  you  a  thing  about  this  re 
markable  man — who  interests,  bores,  charms  and  ir 
ritates — all  in  the  same  breath!" 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Give  him  one  detail,  and  presto — he  has  filled  in! 
And  his  grip  on  ideas  is  disconcerting.  He's  al 
ways  abnormally  right — at  least  he  carries  it  off." 

"I  evidently  am  not  acquainted  with  him." 

"He  knows  what  you're  going  to  say,  and  why  it 
isn't  so — that  is,  why  he  thinks  it  isn't.  He  knows 
what  you've  done,  and  what  you're  going  to  do,  and 
why  it's — why  he  thinks  it's  foolish.  He  loves  to 
tell  you  it's  foolish.  Unfortunately  his  reasons  are 
formidable — unless  you're  just  trifling;  then  you 
can  fluster  him  some." 

54 


THE     CHASM  55 

"Marion,  does  this  supernatural  male  being  live 
in  Moline?" 

"Yes.  He  has  read  out  of  the  way  authors  you 
intended  to  read  and  haven't — Max  Stirner,  Nietz 
sche,  Stendhal,  and  that  sort.  He's  so  absorbed  in 
his  ideas  that " 

"That?" 

"That  to  impress  him  with  one's  personality — is 
an  achievement." 

"So  you  took  the  trouble  to  achieve.  I  suppose  I 
must  be  patient  until  you  make  up  your  tyrannical 
mind  to  tell  me  who  he  is." 

"He  is  one  of  our  gardeners!" 

"Marion  Moulton!" 

"His  name  is  Walt  Bradfield!" 

"One  of  your  gardeners!" 

"His  father  and  mother  are  ignorant  Moline 
truck-farmers." 

Lady  Diotima  was  speechless. 

"He  is  a  socialist." 

"Does  he  eat  with  his  knife?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  began  by  patronizing  him.  Be 
fore  we  get  through  he  promises  to  scatter  most  of 
my  cherished  convictions  to  the  four  winds!" 

"Is  he— scrubbed?" 

"Well,  yes.  But  his  hands  feel  like  nutmeg  grat 
ers." 

"Feel?" 

"The  one  I  shook  did,"  said  Marion,  laughing. 
"His  teeth  are  good  and  clean  and  his  hair  is  nice. 
His  shirt  is  generally  unbuttoned  at  the  neck — per 
haps  to  show  his  fine  throat.  And  you  should  hear 
his  vocabulary!  Western  vowels  and  r's,  of  course, 


56  THE     CHASM 

and  sometimes  too  bookish — showing  where  his  cul 
ture  comes  from — but  I  was  astonished.  He's  given 
me  a  new  perspective.  My  quarrel  with  papa,  for 
instance.  I'm  going  to  withdraw  my  demand  about 
that  letter,  and  see  if  I  can't  reconcile  him  to  my 
marriage  with  Fedya." 

"Marion:  did  you  talk  to  this  gardener  about  your 
marriage?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Marion  answered,  reveling  in  Mrs. 
Pearson's  consternation. 

"What  would  Hohenfels  think  of  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marion,  thoughtfully.  "Of 
course,  Diotima,  I  didn't  go  into  the  personal  side 
of  my  affair  with  Fedya.  Our  talk  was  political. 
Fedya  is  inclined  to  be  a  little — leonine.  But,"  she 
added  pointedly,  "if  I  wanted  to  talk  intimately  with 
the  gardener,  and  then  let  other  people's  cut  and 
dried  opinions  scare  me  out,  Fedya  would  be  scorn 
ful." 

Lady  Diotima  winced  a  little  and  changed  her 
tone.  "Oh,  of  course,  if  he  really  is  such  an  excep 
tional  man.  Does  he  intend  to  remain  a  gardener? 
How  old  is  he?" 

"Perhaps  twenty-six.  I  believe  he  intends  to 
write." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Pearson,  "George  told 
me  he  met  you  on  the  train  last  week.  A  little 
rough  on  him,  weren't  you?" 

"No,  Lady  Diotima.  In  pure  affection  I  called 
him  an  idiot,  and  he  couldn't  conceive  the  word  as 
kindly  meant.  It's  too  bad  he  and  I  have  such  a 
different  set  of  values.  I  should  dearly  love  to  have 
you  for  a  mother-in-law." 


THE     CHASM  57 

"Are  you  sure  your  values  and  those  of  De  Hohen- 
fels  will  not  turn  out  still  more  different?" 

"It  is  curious — really,"  said  Marion.  "Feodor 
and  Bradfield  are  diametrically  opposed  in  many  of 
their  ideas.  And  yet  Feodor  and  Bradfield  and  I 
have  passed  beyond  certain  limitations  which  all 
three  of  us  regard  as  harmful  to  life.  George  still 
thinks  them  essential." 

"I  know,"  said  George's  mother.  "But  he  is  not 
so  narrow  as  his  father,  and  he's  more  intelligent — 
except  about  business.  I  did  use  to  hope  you  would 
take  him  and  broaden  him." 

"After  your  failure  to  broaden  Mr.  Pearson?'' 

"I  admit  I  was  thinking  of  George's  welfare  more 
than  yours.  But  now  I'm  beginning  to  think  you  have 
turned  your  back  too  completely  on  convention." 

"Because  I  talked  with  the  gardener?  I  talked 
with  an  intelligent  man  of  unusual  power.  It's  stupid 
not  to  know  when  to  ignore  convention,  and  it's 
cowardly  not  to  ignore  it  when  it  ought  to  be  ignored. 
Do  you  think  George  could  turn  me  back  into  the 
strait  and  narrow  path?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  sighed  Mrs.  Pearson.  "A  born 
rebel  like  you — any  attempt  to  turn  you  back — would 
only  drive  you  farther  on." 

"Especially  if  anyone  went  at  it  the  way  George 
would.  He  would  get  behind  and  push,  not  lead 
and  lure." 

"Would  Feodor  lead  and  lure?" 

"He'd  enjoy  making  you  think  the  thing  he  ob 
jected  to  was  decadent — your  instinct  perverted  by 
some  herd  opinion — your  will  weakened  by  too  much 
subservient  inhibition  of  impulse." 


58  THE     CHASM 

"And  Bradfield?"  asked  Lady  Diotima  curiously. 

"Bradfield?  If  possible  he'd  startle  you  with 
the  real  simplicity  of  the  matter.  He'd  bring  you 
and  your  problem  into  focus — just  for  his  own  in 
tellectual  gratification;  and  not  really  care  a  rap 
what  you  decided.  He  wouldn't  think  you  headed 
for  perdition — either  way." 

"What  a  tremendous  opinion  you  have  of  the 
man,  Marion!" 

"Yes,  I  have.  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet  him  and 
see  why." 

"Would  you  bring  him  to  call?"  asked  Mrs.  Pear 
son,  amused  and  looking  keenly  at  the  girl. 

Marion  hesitated.  Bradfield  in  corduroys  fertil 
izing  lilies  and  laying  moss  was  one  thing,  but  Brad- 
field  in  Lady  Diotima's  drawing  room 

"Bring  him  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pearson  grave 
ly.  "I  should  love  to  see  him  putting  sugar  and 
cream  in  his  bouillon." 

"But  I  shouldn't,"  said  Marion,  her  protective 
instinct  awaking.  "We'll  do  it  some  other  way. 
Come  over  some  morning,  and  we'll  talk  to  him  at 
his  work." 

The  too  veracious  image  of  the  gardener  putting 
sugar  in  his  bouillon  somehow  made  Marion  ask  her 
self  again,  somewhat  irrelevantly,  whether  she  was 
not  rating  even  his  intellectual  power  too  high.  It 
was  an  absurdly  little  thing,  and  yet  typical  of  a  lot 
of  little  things  whose  aggregate  she  was  accustomed 
to  associate  with  human  excellence  of  whatever  kind. 

She  had  hastily  read  up  a  little  on  socialism,  and 
in  one  of  her  later  talks  with  Walt  Bradfield  attacked 
it  for  the  purpose  of  drawing  out  his  ideas  fully. 


59 

In  Europe  socialism  was  a  factor  to  be  reckoned 
with,  and  she  knew  she  ought  to  understand  it.  She 
had  as  yet  heard  nothing  of  that  story  of  his  own 
mind  which  she  had  promised  herself.  But  the  day 
after  her  talk  with  Mrs.  Pearson,  intending  direct 
dispassionate  study  of  him,  she  went  into  the  con 
servatory  to  make  Bradfield  talk  about  himself. 

He  was  not  there.  Irrationally,  his  absence  when 
she  had  come  to  look  for  him  affected  her  almost 
as  a  rudeness.  She  quickly  dismissed  that.  He 
was  where  his  work  called  him — of  course.  Very 
likely  he  had  picked  the  strawberries  she  had  had 
for  breakfast.  But  she  found  other  things  to  foster 
the  unflattering  suspicion  that  she  was  less  interest^ 
ing  to  him  than  he  to  her.  One  of  their  conserva 
tory  conversations  had  revealed  the  fact  that  her 
own  a  priori  disdain  of  him  as  a  "servant"  when 
they  first  met  had  been  perfectly  matched  on  his  part 
by  an  a  priori  disdain  of  her  as  a  "parasite  woman." 
Until  then  she  had  supposed  the  superiority  of  the 
upper  classes  to  be  a  thing  conceded  by  the  lower. 
That  it  was  not — that  the  opposite  was  firmly  be 
lieved  not  only  by  Bradfield,  but  as  he  assured  her 
by  great  numbers  of  working  people — was  to  her 
startling,  portentous  of  impending  social  change  and 
overthrow.  The  acquaintance  of  Marion  and  Brad- 
field  had  caused  each  of  them  to  make  of  the  other 
an  exception  in  their  general  view  of  each  other's 
classes;  but  the  initial  prejudice,  merely  instilled  into 
her,  had  been  ground  into  him,  and  she  did  not  know 
to  what  extent  it  had  yielded  to  personal  liking.  The 
withered  yellow  stem  of  the  lily  she  had  loved  and 
wondered  at  had  fallen  into  a  crack  in  the  rustic 


60  THE     CHASM 

seat.  She  had  left  it  there  beside  him,  under  his 
eye,  within  reach  of  his  hand — not  intentionally — 
certainly  not  for  him — and  yet  men  much  more  im 
portant  than  he  would  have  treasured  it.  She  con 
vinced  herself  that  she  didn't  want  him  to  be  senti 
mental  about  her;  but  the  necessity  for  self-directed 
argument  about  it  made  her  wonder  if  she  were  not 
thinking  too  much  about  him. 

She  went  back  that  morning  to  "II  Santo"  and 
finished  it;  and  that  afternoon  played  bridge  at 
Miss  Cowperthwaite's.  That  evening  she  went  to 
a  bridge  party  in  Rock  Island.  That  night  she  went 
to  bed  sick  of  bridge  but  with  endless  hours  of  it 
looming  upon  her  from  all  quarters  of  Moline, 
Davenport,  and  Rock  Island.  Human  conversation 
was  at  a  low  ebb  among  the  ladies  of  the  three 
cities. 

Next  morning  the  Gildersleeve  boys  came  over 
in  their  car  and  for  two  hours  talked  golf — in  which 
fine  game  their  listener  was  not  wildly  interested. 
This  experience  gave  Miss  Moulton  more  respect 
for  Walt  Bradfield's  taste  in  hobbies.  Another  after 
noon  of  bridge;  a  dinner  party  with  George  Pear 
son  beside  her,  and  Marion  was  ripe  for  rebellion. 
George's  interest  in  her  had  revived  on  hearing 
from  his  mother  that  she  was  not  actually  engaged 
to  the  foreigner,  and  he  had  contrived  to  see  her 
every  two  or  three  days,  heralding  his  visits  with 
boxes  of  candy  and  armfuls  of  cut  roses. 

"George  isn't  very  poikilodoros,"  she  mused,  after 
one  of  Mr.  Pearson's  prolonged  evening  calls. 
"Bradfield  would  bring  other  gifts — his  own  mind — 
news  of  big  world-wide  problems — interest  in  things 


THE     CHASM  61 

I  want  to  be  interested  in.  I  shall  shock  Lady  Dio- 
tima  by  telling  her  that  the  big  things  are  as  im 
portant  as  the  little  things.  It's  nonsense  not  to 
make  the  most  of  Bradfield's  existence  in  this  dreary 
time.  I  shall  flirt  with  him  if  I  feel  like  it.  At 
least  I  shall  hale  him  forth  from  his  hiding-place 
and  tell  him  how  I  hate  bridge." 


VI 

MARION  reached  the  conservatory  next  morn 
ing  by  nine  o'clock.  It  was  a  bright  day  and 
warm  for  March.  Bradfield  was  in  the  long 
part  of  the  building  consulting  a  thermometer  and 
adjusting  a  mechanism  that  opened  a  row  of  sash 
in  the  roof.  He  returned  Miss  Moulton's  greeting, 
and  either  not  assuming  or  not  wishing  to  appear  to 
assume  she  had  come  there  to  talk  with  him,  he 
turned  his  attention  back  to  the  ventilator-lifter.  Sup 
posing  that  diffidence  was  not  a  permissible  explana 
tion  of  conduct  in  a  professed  egoist,  she  promptly 
misinterpreted. 

"Is  your  time  too  valuable  to  waste  talking  to  me 
this  morning,  Mr.  Bradfield?"  she  inquired. 

"My  time  doesn't  belong  to  me,  Miss  Moulton, 
but  I  will  steal  as  much  of  it  as  you  have  any  use 
for." 

"That  would  seem  to  oblige  me  to  say  important 
things  to  justify  the  theft.  Important  things  are 
what  I  don't  want  to  say.  I'd  better  wait  till  you're 
off  duty." 

"I  have  next  Sunday  off,"  he  suggested  tentative- 

ly- 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  admired  and  liked 
some  of  the  "big  things"  about  him,  she  found  her- 

62 


THE    CHASM  63 

self  incapable  of  imagining  herself  receiving  Mr. 
Bradfield  as  a  caller. 

"The  Roughers  and  Finishers  of  the  Republic 
Steel  Company  will  give  a  masked  ball  Saturday," 
he  said  doubtfully.  "You  wouldn't  care  to  see  the 
working  class  enjoy  itself,  would  you?  No,  you 
wouldn't.  They  don't  know  how  very  well.  Not 
enough  practice.  I  wish  you  could  hear  Gilroy's 
socialist  talk  in  Draper  Hall  to-morrow  night." 

"I  hear  enough  of  that  from  you,"  said  Marion, 
smiling.  "You  couldn't  let  me  watch  you  work 
a  while,  could  you?  Haven't  you  something  to  do 
while  we  talk — that  I  could  sit  and  watch?" 

"Why  yes,"  he  said.  "Someone  has  to  putter 
around  near  this  thermometer  this  kind  of  a  day, 
opening  windows  and  turning  off  steam.  Just  be 
fore  you  came  in  I  saw  how  a  thermostat  could  be 
put  on  here  with  a  rod  controlling  a  valve  that  would 
automatically  shut  off  steam  and  turn  the  windows 
open — this  way — as  the  temperature  started  to  rise. 
Like  an  incubator.  It  would  hold  the  atmosphere  of 
the  conservatory  at  any  temperature  you  like." 

"Isn't  that  idea  valuable?"  she  asked.  "Why 
don't  you  work  it  out  and  patent  it?" 

"Perhaps  I  might  make  a  little  something  that 
way." 

"A  little  something?  I  should  think  a  successful 
device  like  that — good  enough  to  put  in  all  conser 
vatories — would  mean  thousands." 

"To  the  capitalist  who  floated  it  and  put  it  on  the 
market.  To  the  inventor — a  few  dollars." 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Marion.  "I  wasn't  going  to 
give  you  a  chance  to  say  'capitalist'  or  'working 


64  THE    CHASM 

class'  to  me  to-day  and  you've  got  them  both  in 
already." 

"What  shall  I  talk  about?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

"Yourself.  You  are  an  enigma  I  wish  to  under 
stand.  But  first  won't  you  bring  that  bench  over 
here  for  me?"  He  brought  it.  "Now  tell  me  where 
you  got  your  vocabulary,"  she  commanded,  seating 
herself. 

"I  had  four  whole  years  of  grammar  school,"  he 
said,  deciding  that  "vocabulary"  meant  education. 
"Trucking  then  cut  school  to  five  months  a  year, 
but  I  studied  evenings  with  my  older  sister,  and 
made  high  school  at  fifteen.  Then  I  discovered  the 
public  library.  The  money  I  had  for  clothes  went 
into  books  of  poetry.  A  student  of  Augustana  Col 
lege  worked  for  my  father  summers,  and  I  pumped 
him  of  what  he  knew  while  we  hoed  cabbages.  He 
showed  me  how  to  study  the  parts  of  plants,  and  I 
devoured  his  text-books  nights.  Time  being  limited, 
I  had  to  learn  to  get  the  cream  of  a  book  in  an  hour 
or  so,  and  books  being  expensive,  I  had  to  manage  to 
carry  the  good  of  them  away  in  my  head.  I  spent 
so  much  time  reading  I  failed  to  advance  out  of  the 
D  class.  My  father  thought  I  was  wasting  time,  and 
so  the  next  year  I  had  to  work  in  the  new  green 
house  we  had  built.  My  English  teacher,  a  lovely 
woman,  was  indignant  at  my  being  taken  out  of 
school.  She  had  me  call  on  her,  and  loaned  me  her 
own  beautiful  books — Ruskin,  Morris,  Vernon  Lee, 
Keats,  Dante.  We  read  together,  and  I — wrote 
verses  to  her." 

"Dare  I  ask  how  old  she  was?" 

"To  me  she  was  ageless  and  deathless." 


THE    CHASM  65 

"That's  nice  of  you,"  nodded  Marion  approving 
ly.  "I  think  she  accounts  for  you — nearly.  Is  she 
still  in  the  high  school?" 

"No,  she  is  teaching  in  Seattle.  She  sometimes 
writes.  She  praised  the  style  of  my  books,  but  she 
wasn't  modern  enough  to — understand  them." 

"Oh,  you  have  already  written  books?  Where 
can  I  get  hold  of  them?  Am  I  'modern  enough'? 
But  if  you  outgrew  her — what  gave  you  the  ideas 
she  couldn't  understand?" 

"First,  Haeckel.  He  taught  me  the  real  history 
and  nature  of  organic  life.  His  savage  truth  was 
more  inspiring  than  Alice's  gentle  fiction." 

"So  you  called  her  Alice,"  thought  Marion. 

He  was  reddening  beneath  his  tan,  and  went  on 
rapidly.  "As  soon  as  I  was  clear  of  the  confusing 
idea  of  a  monarchic  interferer  in  the  self-evolving 
universe,  all  that  was  religious  in  me — and  it  was  a 
lot — poured  itself  into  a  passionate  adoration  of 
life  itself — life  as  the  pressure  of  the  universe  has 
thrust  it  up  out  of  lifelessness  into  ever  intenser  es 
sence  and  ever  finer  forms.  After  monism,  social 
ism  was  bound  to  come  somehow — especially  after 
I  went  to  work  in  the  U.  S.  Plow  Company  black 
smith  shop.  The  only  men  there  who  did  anything 
worthy  to  be  called  thinking  were  socialists.  It 
came  to  me  in  one  magnificent  rush  from  the  lips 
of  a  little  wizened  street-sweeper  in  the  park  by  the 
depot.  In  him  first  I  saw  the  splendor  of  impas 
sioned  public  speech.  His  grammar  was  bad,  but  he 
had  a  wealth  of  fresh  and  purposeful  thoughts — 
thoughts  like  the  gleam  of  swords.  He  was  talking 
to  a  crowd  of  workingmen,  some  of  them  socialists. 


66  THE     CHASM 

They  had  a  table  lit  with  a  gasoline  torch  and  were 
selling  their  little  red  five  cent  books.  I  bought 
the  Communist  Manifesto.  We  got  into  a  sizzling 
argument  after  the  speech,  and  a  dozen  of  us  went 
over  to  a  saloon  and  sat  there  till  they  turned  us 
out  at  two  in  the  morning.  That  was  Romance  and 
knightly  quest — and  I  was  drinking  soda  water  then 
too.  Till  then  I  had  come  in  touch  with  intellectual 
energy  only  in  the  quietness  and  solitude  of  reading. 
Here  was  intellect  in  battle  I  My  brain  glowed  with 
it.  Everything  was  a  poem.  These  were  magnifi 
cent  men.  I  was  intoxicated  with  high  discourse 
and  the  leaping  play  of  wits.  Of  course  the  social 
ists  demolished  the  others — all  except  one  anarchist 
who  set  up  nothing  much  himself  and  threw  his  force 
into  a  brilliant  attack — from  the  rear,  as  it  were, 
while  the  socialists  were  faced  the  other  way  against 
the  muddleheads." 

"Here  is  where  I  demand  a  definition,"  said  Mar 
ion.  "Is  muddlehead  synonymous  with  non-social 
ist,  non-revolutionist,  or  what?" 

"There  are  overlappings,"  conceded  Bradfield. 
"Your  father  is  no  muddlehead.  He  knows  his  class 
interest — and  acts  accordingly.  Haeckel  is  no  mud 
dlehead  in  biology.  Neither  was  Mendel,  the  Cath 
olic  abbe.  There  are  socialists  who  are  clear  in 
economics  and  muddleheads  in  religion." 

"Who  are  the  non-muddleheads  in  religion? 
Those  who  have  none?" 

"In  religion,  I  think  most  of  the  non-muddleheads 
are  what  I'd  call  dynamist  monists." 

"Sometimes  pronounced  'moonists'  by  the  uncon 
verted?"  she  suggested  gravely. 


THE     CHASM  67 

"The  unconverted  are  the  moonists,"  he  coun 
tered.  "Am  I  boring  you  with  this  history  of  my 
mind?" 

"No.  The  personal  part  is  exactly  what  I  wanted. 
But — "  holding  up  a  warning  finger — "not  too  much 
socialism." 

"But  it  is  precisely  socialism — the  crowning,  syn 
thesizing  science  of  the  evolutionary  philosophy — 
socialism  with  its  riddle-reading  analysis  of  human 
history,  which  gives  me  the  key  to  all  that  is  hap 
pening  in  the  life  around  me.  Thanks  to  it,  and  the 
sciences  that  lie  back  of  it,  I  am  better  entitled  than 
Browning's  Ben  Ezra  to  cry,  'I  see  the  whole  de 
sign!'  I  see  the  people  about  me  who  lack  its  light 
stumbling  in  a  blind  maze — a  welter  and  confusion 
of  facts  they  cannot  understand.  Things  happen  to 
them  that  fill  their  hearts  with  misdirected  bitter 
ness.  Befogging  ideas  conceal  the  real  source  of 
their  misery — the  loaded  dice  with  which  the  em 
ploying  classes  play  this  game  of  life." 

"So  you  do  propose  to  turn  the  bitterness  of  the 
working  people  against  their  employers!" 

"No.  Against  their  loaded  dice.  We  will  take 
the  dice  away — without  bitterness." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  little  process  will  not  result 
in  bitterness?" 

"Then  let  it.  Would  you  have  us  not  disarm  a 
burglar  simply  because  he  might  be  embittered?" 

"You  have  things  upside  down  with  a  vengeance! 
You  propose  to  take  their  property  away  from  cer 
tain  people,  and  then  you  have  the  effrontery  to  call 
those  people  burglars!" 

"The  burglar's  gun  is  his  property  all  right,  but 


68  THE    CHASM 

what  use  does  he  make  of  it?  So  with  natural  re 
sources  and  socially  created  machinery.  When  it  is 
finally  beaten  into  the  nation's  thick  head  that  it 
must — in  order  to  have  anything  of  decent  life — 
the  nation  is  going  to  take  that  gun  away  from  'cer 
tain  people.'  Miss  Moulton:  who  ought  to  own 
those  factories — the  men  who  every  day  put  all  their 
vital  energy  into  the  use  of  them — or  you?" 

"There's  no  particular  reason  for  my  owning 
them.  But  if  my  father  chooses  to  give  them  to  me 
— he  may  not,  by  the  way — do  you  expect  me  to  say 
'No,  thank  you'  ?" 

"You'd  be  a  fool  if  you  did — under  the  present 
system.  But  what  do  you  think  of  the  system,  real 
ly?  And  the  thousands  of  men  who  work  there, 
every  man  with  a  vote,  creating  an  average  value 
of  ten  dollars  a  day  apiece,  and  getting  less  than 
two?  What  do  you  think  of  them  for  voting  year 
after  year  to  present  your  father  and  you  with  eight 
out  of  every  ten  dollars  they  make?" 

"Is  it  quite  so  simple  as  that?" 

"Essentially.  There's  much  muddying  of  waters 
to  keep  the  workers  from  seeing  it.  Fortunately 
the  wage-system  is  only  a  passing  mal-adjustment 
in  the  age-long  evolutionary  process.  It's  only  a 
little  over  a  hundred  years  old — the  state  of  col 
lective  toil  by  the  many  and  private  ownership  of 
the  necessary  machinery  by  the  few.  As  it  came, 
it  will  pass — and  good  riddance !  Knowing  this,  we 
are  able  to  work  without  bitterness  against  the  bit 
ter  injustice  of  it.  In  place  of  the  bloody,  futile  out 
breaks  my  class  contented  itself  with  in  the  past,  we 
analyze  society,  discover  its  laws,  work  in  harmony 


THE     CHASM  69 

with  them.  We  throw  our  force  in  the  direction 
humanity  must  move.  Everything  groups  and  re 
lates  itself.  Facts  string  themselves  ordinately  as 
beads  on  the  sound  generalizations  of  our  philos 
ophy." 

"Your  own  mind  does  happen  to  work  that  way 
with  facts.  I  was  trying  to  express  it  to  Lady  Dio- 
tima — a  friend  of  mine  I  would  like  you  to  meet.  I 
imagine,  though,  that  your  mind  would  work  just 
the  same  way  whatever  your  philosophy." 

"You  imagine  wrong." 

"So?"  said  she,  resolving  to  crush  him  for  once. 
"Haeckel  hasn't  the  socialist  philosophy,  has  he?" 

"No." 

"Do  not  his  facts  string  themselves  on  the  lines 
of  sound  generalizations?" 

"His  biologic  facts  do,  because  his  biologic  gen 
eralizations  are  sound.  His  sociologic  facts  remain 
to  him  a  welter  and  confusion.  So  would  mine  if  I 
did  not  have  the  socialist  philosophy.  Take  any 
other  social  philosophy,  and  the  beads  break  the 
string." 

She  thought  hard  for  a  moment.  It  was  too  easy 
for  him.  "I  can't  argue  with  youl"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  swore  I  wouldn't  do  it  to-day.  I  wanted  to  get 
acquainted  with  you.  When  you  argue  with  me  on 
these  subjects  it's  like  a  strong  man  holding  the 
wrists  of  a  child.  It's  a  thing  you've  trained  your 
self  in  for  years.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self!" 

"For  self-defense?"  he  remonstrated. 

"I  won't  argue  whether  it's  self-defense.  It  isn't, 
but  you'd  beat  me  out  of  that,  too.  .You  are  the  most 


70  THE     CHASM 

disputatious  person  I  ever  met.  Did  you  ever  hear 
Emerson's  saying,  'The  gods  do  not  argue'?" 

"I  wouldn't  either,  if  I  were  a  god,"  chuckled 
Bradfield.  "What  I  said  would  go — whether  it  was 
so  or  not.  We  have  to  make  people  see  things — in 
spite  of  inclination,  false  education,  prejudice.  That 
takes  argument." 

"You  even  argue  about  arguing." 

"Self-defense,"  he  reiterated.  "I'm  not  feeling 
argumentative." 

"I  hope  I  never  see  you  when  you  are,"  she 
laughed.  "Shall  I  tell  you  something?  Yes,  I  will. 
You  are  so  egotistic  already  that  nothing  can  make 
you  worse.  I  came  in  here  looking  for  you  the  other 
day,  and  was  disappointed." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  held  it  while  he  looked 
her  in  the  eyes. 

"Well?"  she  said  blithely.  "Aren't  you  going  to 
say  you  are  honored  or  charmed  or  somethinged?" 

"I'm  somethinged,  all  right,"  said  he.  "But  there 
seems  to  be  something  the  matter  with  my  vocal 
cords." 

"I  knew  you'd  be  fun  if  I  could  once  get  you  off 
your  hobby!" 

"I  think  perhaps — I'm  safer  on  it."  Tolerant 
amusement  at  himself  was  his  tone — not  perfectly 
sustained. 

"I  being  one  of  the  national  burglars?"  she  sug 
gested. 

"You  as  national  burglar  are  not  especially  dan 
gerous  to  me  personally." 

"But  how  about  being  bribed  with  my  companion- 


THE     CHASM  71 

ship?  Is  your  alarm  for  your  integrity  so  great  that 
you  wish  to  avoid  my  society?" 

"By  no  means." 

"Is  that  all  you  intend  to  say  about  it?  How  un- 
flatteringly  moderate!" 

"Well,  that  shows  my  self-control.  My  real  feel 
ings  are  not  a  bit  moderate.  I'd  give  a  leg  or  two 
to  know  you  well,  Miss  Moulton,  but  it  doesn't  look 
probable  that  I'll  have  the  chance." 

"Now  that  is  what  I  call  being  adequate  to  the 
occasion!" 

"And  I  refuse  to  let  myself  get  started  wanting 
things  I  can't  get.  It's  a  waste  of  energy." 

"You  are  economical!"  she  said  unsympathetical- 
ly.  "As  for  me — Moline  drives  me  mad!  I  can't 
tell  you  how  unspeakably  I  hate  bridge." 

He  looked  blank  and  she  laughed. 

"You  don't  even  know  what  it  is!    Happy  man!" 

"Oh,"  he  said  awkwardly — "bridge  whist.  Of 
course  I've  heard  of  it." 

"They  play  it  morning,  noon  and  night — but  not 
for  money.  Perish  the  immoral  thought!  Think 
of  the  inanity — a  gambling  game  without  stakes — 
firing  at  a  target  with  blank  cartridges!  I  could 
have  stood  a  little  of  it.  As  it  is,  I'm  desperate.  I 
feel  like  doing  something  perfectly  devilish — some 
thing  they  will  disapprove  of  in  me  as  much  as  I 
disapprove  of  their  assassinating  half  my  waking 
hours.  Do  you  know  that  pet  phrase  of  harum 
scarum  French  artists  and  writers — 'epater  les 
bourgeois'?" 

"I  don't  know  French." 


72  THE    CHASM 

"You  know  the  word  bourgeois.  The  other  means 
to  spat.  The  idea  is  to  horrify  them,  scandalize 
them,  do  something  to  shock  their  deadly  sense  of 
propriety." 

"May  I  offer  you  any  assistance  I  may  be  able  to 
render  in  epateing  the  bourgeois?"  he  said,  with  ser 
ious  lips  and  dancing  eyes. 

There  was  a  flash  in  her  eyes  which  looked  like 
yes,  and  he  added  quickly : 

"Shall  we  go  for  a  long  ride  Sunday  in  a  speed 
boat  I  have  the  use  of?" 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Why  don't  you?  The  boss  wants  me  to  gather 
some  moss — maybe  to  prove  I'm  not  a  rolling  stone. 
That  means  some  beautiful  places  I  could  show 
you." 

She  sat  a  moment  thinking.  "That  would  be  sim 
ply  fine — but  I'm  afraid  it  would  hardly  do.  We 
can't  do  all  the  things  we'd  like  to,  you  know,"  she 
added,  taking  refuge  in  a  tone  of  superior  knowl 
edge  of  the  world.  "Mrs.  Grundy  is  still  a  little 
too  strong  for  us." 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  something  he  had 
expected  had  developed,  and  said  quietly,  "So  you 
dasn\  epater  the  bourgeois!" 

"You  realize  very  well  that  kind  of  lack  of  free 
dom  common  in  your  own  class,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  she 
said,  hating  to  see  her  courage  sink  in  his  estima 
tion,  "but  I  wonder  if  freedom  isn't  scarcer  than  you 
think — in  ours?" 

"It's  a  condition  indeed  pitiable!"  he  said.  "The 
university  sociologists  ought  to  investigate  it." 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't  understand,"  she  said, 


THE     CHASM  73 

feeling  that  lie  was  definitely  placing  her  in  the  very 
bourgeoisie  with  which  she  claimed  to  have  no  sym 
pathy.  "It's  a  thing  I  can't  explain.  Such  things 
come  to  be  a  matter  of  instinct." 

"But  I  do  understand,"  he  said.  "It  happens  to 
be  one  of  the  things  I  understand  best.  The  expla-, 
nation,  which  you  are  unable  to  give,  is  that  when  it 
comes  to  action  you  find  you  are  a  member  of  your 
class  and  must  obey  its  ethics." 

"Is  it  really  no  more  than  class  ethics?" 

He  wouldn't  answer  it. 

She  saw  it  was  undeniable.  It  had  been  too  much 
of  her  to  see  it  herself.  She  had  unconsciously  tak 
en  it  for  granted  when  she  weighed  right  and  wrong, 
what  to  do,  what  not,  that  her  standard  was  simply 
of  humanity — practically  universal,  because  if  there 
were  people  to  whom  it  did  not  apply  they  were  of 
lower  orders  and  did  not  count.  But  she  had  imagi 
nation  enough  to  see  now  how  strange  that  whole 
standard  must  look  from  the  outside  to  one  who 
honestly  felt  her  class  to  be  almost  unnecessary,  its 
vital  function  in  the  world  almost  outgrown,  its 
destiny  as  a  class  to  sink  to  parasitic  rank,  and  then 
— be  sloughed.  That  vision  seemed  to  shake  the 
stable  world.  "Is  everything  I  have  unconsciously 
felt  as  right  and  wrong — every  act  that  says'Do  me' 
and  'Don't  do  me' — is  it  all  class  ethics?" 

"I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  that,"  said  Bradfield. 
"There  is  common  ground  way  down — deeper  than 
most  folks  ever  get — much  deeper  than  is  claimed 
by  those  whose  interest  it  is  to  obscure  the  chasm.  A 
lot — oh,  an  awful  lot — is  of  class." 

For  a  moment  the  undeniable  fact  of  social  dis- 


74  THE     CHASM 

union  filled  her  with  sadness  and  a  sense  of  loneli 
ness — as  though  she  were  isolated  on  some  far  pin 
nacle.  It  gave  her  a  yearning  to  bridge  all  gaps — 
to  draw  the  severed  and  warring  factions  of  the 
world  together.  Then  the  practical  side  of  her 
mind  took  hold.  "If  that  is  what  the  world  is,"  she 
said,  "I  cannot  change  it.  That  part  of  my  right 
and  wrong  which  is  of  class  is  still  right  and  wrong 
for  me." 

"You  have  this  moment  become  thoroughly  class- 
conscious,"  said  Bradfield.  "I  predict  that  from 
now  on  you  will  progressively  cease  to  be  a  muddle- 
head." 

"Thank  you,  kind  prophet,  for  your  kind  proph 
ecy.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  just  now  felt  some 
thing  much  wider  than  class-consciousness.  It  seemed 
cosmic.  But  you'll  admit  that  it's  all  pretty  far 
afield  from  a  certain  launch-ride.  I  want  to  go. 
Would  you  care  to  invite  Mrs.  Pearson?" 

"Why  yes.     If  you  want  her." 

"I've  been  wanting  to  have  her  talk  with  you,  you 
know,"  said  Marion,  but  then  she  pondered.  The 
mossy  places  were  good  enough  excuse  for  anybody. 
Lady  Diotima  would  go  as  her  guest,  but  hardly  if 
she  realized  clearly  that  she  would  be  Bradfield's. 
Was  Bradfield  a  man  who  would  at  all  expand  in 
the  presence  of  a  chaperone?  Bradfield  and  chaper- 
onage  did  not  seem  to  belong  in  the  same  boat.  And 
Lady  Diotima  as  friend — Marion  feared  she  would 
be  too  keen  for  signs  of  ignorance  of  the  unwritten 
edicts  of  her  class  and  pounce  with  joy  on  any  little 
gaucherie  betraying  plebeian  breeding.  The  girl  felt 
just  then  that  if  Lady  Diotima  tried  that  with  Brad- 


THE     CHASM  75 

field  she  would  get  the  worst  of  it,  but  still — "Per 
haps  I  don't  want  her,"  she  said.  "But  if  I  want  her, 
and  if  she  has  no  engagement,  and  if  she'll  go — then 
we'll  gather  moss." 

As  she  left  him  that  day  she  had  the  feeling  that 
between  them  there  had  begun  a  shifting  of  spiritual 
hegemony — as  though  weight  had  moved  from  her 
side  of  their  balance  to  his — as  though  the  ideal  of 
freedom  to  which  he  looked  inward  had  gained  on 
her  waning  ideal  of  caste.  The  meeting  of  their 
eyes  at  parting  sent  a  delicate  thrill  through  her — a 
sensation  as  of  breathing  sudden  perfume:  but  she 
turned  her  mind  from  that  at  once,  and  made  believe 
to  herself  that  no  such  thing  had  happened. 


VII 

THE  trim,  maroon-colored  launch  "Nancy"  lay 
ready  to  be  stepped  into  alongside  the  boat- 
house  wharf  on  a  hot  Sunday  morning  the  last 
of  March.  The  brass  would  take  no  higher  polish,- 
woodwork  could  be  no  cleaner,  and  Walt  Bradfield 
in  his  Sunday  clothes  was  looking  nervously  up  the 
street  to  the  south  for  a  motor  car  bringing  Miss 
Moulton  and  Mrs.  Pearson.  To  his  surprise  Mar 
ion  arrived  alone,  coming  on  foot  along  the  white 
boulevard  through  the  raw  little  trees  of  the  new 
park  by  the  river. 

"I  telephoned  Mrs.  Pearson  not  to  stop  for  me  at 
Hillcrest,"  she  said,  joining  Bradfield  beside  the 
launch.  "I  didn't  realize  how  hot  it  was.  Shall  I 
get  in?  That  canopy  looks  good  after  the  mockery 
of  those  absurd  trees." 

He  held  the  launch  from  rocking  as  she  stepped 
•in  and  seated  herself  on  the  shaded  side. 

"I  couldn't  persuade  myself  you  were  really  com 
ing,"  he  said. 

"I  was  afraid  after  I  started  that  Mrs.  Pearson 
would  get  here  first.  What  would  you  have  done?" 

"I'm  not  half  as  much  afraid  of  Mrs.  Pearson  as 
I  am — of  you." 

She  looked  up  the  street — perhaps  to  avoid  that 

76 


THE     CHASM  77 

faint  thrill  of  meeting  eyes.  "There  she  is  now!"  she 
exclaimed,  seeing  the  Pearson  car.  "I  was  just  in 
time." 

Walt  turned  to  see,  mentally  preparing  for  battle 
with  Mrs.  Pearson.  "No  one  but  the  driver  in  that 
car,"  he  said. 

The  chauffeur  stopped  his  machine,  saw  Miss 
Moulton  in  the  launch,  and  brought  her  a  note.  She 
skimmed  it. 

"Please  tell  Mrs.  Pearson  I'm  very  sorry,"  she 
said.  She  looked  out  thoughtfully  across  Sylvan 
water  as  the  chauffeur  went  back  to  his  car.  She 
lifted  the  note  from  her  lap  and  read  it  again,  then 
tore  it  absent-mindedly  across.  She  looked  back 
along  the  shadeless  boulevard.  Walt  watched  her 
curiously,  brightening  finally  as  he  saw  her  look  of 
determination.  "Well,  she's  not  coming,"  said 
Marion,  dropping  overboard  the  fragments  of 
crested  note-paper.  "We  might  as  well  start." 

He  cast  off  with  alacrity,  climbed  in,  and  took  his 
place  at  the  engine.  She  looked  at  the  slowly  wide 
ning  strip  of  water  between  launch  and  landing.  "Can 
you  see  Class-Ethics  prostrate  on  that  wharf?"  she 
asked. 

They  laughed  together — the  laugh  of  people  who 
have  little  jokes  that  other  people  cannot  under 
stand. 

"Who's  that  with  Walt  Bradfield?"  asked  a 
launch-owner  of  Joe  the  boat-keeper. 

"Looks  like  the  Moulton  girl  that  used  to  go  out 
with  George  Pearson,"  Joe  responded.  "Guess  she 
wouldn't  be  going  out  with  Walt,  though." 

"Marion  Moulton?     A  thirty  millionairess!     I 


78  THE     CHASM 

should  say  not.  She's  going  to  marry  some  foreign 
prince.  But  that's  sure  a  high-toned  girl." 

"Prob'ly  hired  Walt  to  take  her  some  place,"  Joe 
conjectured. 

The  launch  sped  away  from  the  dingy  wooden 
landing,  Bradfield  watching  and  listening  to  the  en 
gine  while  he  steered  with  the  tiller-lever — a  handle 
set  in  the  line  that  ran  outside  the  low  rail.  "It 
seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  he  said. 

"Good  things  do  happen  sometimes.  I  am  escap 
ing  some  people  who'll  eat  half  the  afternoon  and 
talk  about  it  the  other  half.  Poor  mother!  I  told 
her  I  was  going  on  an  all  afternoon  launch-party. 
If  she  could  see  the  party!" 

"Would  it  epater  her,  too?" 

"She  might  pretend  not.  She's  a  new  thoughtist, 
but  you  can't  tell  just  when  she's  going  to  be  an  old 
thoughtist.  The  party  might  strike  her  as  some 
what  unchaperoned."  His  expression  gave  rise  to 
an  amusing  doubt.  "Do  you  know  what  a  chaperone 
is,  oh  man  of  Eden?" 

"I've  read  of  it,"  he  answered. 

"It!"  she  exclaimed  joyfully. 

"It's  an  institution  above  my  social  level  and  be 
low  yours,"  he  explained. 

She  reluctantly  gave  up  the  hope  of  that  delightful 
piece  of  ignorance  in  him.  "No,"  she  said,  " — not 
below  my  social  level." 

"But  below  you"    He  liked  that  even  better. 

"To-day  it  is — in  the  collapse  of  our  friend  on  the 
wharf.  You  see  you  are  giving  me  the  egotism. 
By  the  way,  is  there  some  place  we  can  get  dinner? 
Not  that  I'm  hungry,  Mr.  Bradfield.  Nothing  so 


THE     CHASM  79 

indelicate,  I  assure  you,  but  still — we  can't  eat  moss, 
you  know." 

"I  don't  know  any  place  good  enough  for  you." 

"Some  woodsy,  farmy  place?  Where  would  you 
take  me  if  I  were  Alice?"  Her  eyes  were  mischiev 
ous  at  the  name. 

"Spinnyville,"  he  said,  brightening,  but  not  en 
couraging  her  to  tease  him  about  his  former  love. 

Deciding  to  stop  on  their  way  down  to  the  island 
where  they  were  to  get  the  moss,  they  rounded  the 
head  of  the  government  island,  went  through  the  new 
lock,  and  ran  down  along  a  rocky  shore.  The  flaw 
less  glades  of  the  golf-links,  laid  out  through  rugged 
woods,  were  already  green  with  spring.  On  their 
right  the  tree-lined  streets  of  Davenport  climbed 
from  river  to  bluff — churches  and  residences  half 
emerging  from  a  russet  haze  of  buds.  Down-stream, 
beneath  a  span  of  the  big  bridge  they  saw  miles  of 
blue  water  bounded  by  willow-covered  shores  and 
towheads  putting  on  new  gold.  Above  the  south 
western  hills  were  piled  slow  masses  of  white  cloud. 

As  they  ran  down  past  the  cities  and  the  islands 
they  talked  of  one  of  his  books.  He  had  given  her 
two  of  them,  small  cloth-bound  volumes  of  about 
seventy  pages  each.  She  had  yet  to  read  "Social 
Evolution,"  but  had  finished  "Organic  Evolution" 
the  night  before.  It  was  not  the  cold,  scientific 
treatise  the  title  had  led  her  to  expect.  She  found 
in  it  the  work  of  a  poet  who  had  based  his  work  on 
cold,  scientific  treatises,  but  he  himself  had  visualized 
the  million  centuries  of  life  and  written  the  history 
thereof  with  passion.  This  writing  gave  her  a  new 
feeling  toward  the  world  she  lived  in,  a  new  feeling 


80  THE     CHASM 

toward  herself.  Life  was  much  more  marvelous 
than  she  had  supposed,  but  less  mysterious.  While 
she  was  under  the  spell  of  the  book,  "soul"  ceased  to 
be  a  thing  apart.  It  was  a  function  of  living  mat 
ter.  But  instead  of  making  soul  less  beautiful,  the 
intimacy  made  living  matter  more  so.  Instead  of 
ceasing  to  exist,  the  most  exquisite  spirituality  be 
came  a  glorious  phase  of  material  life.  Inorganic 
matter  itself  was  no  longer  the  inert  stuff  it  had 
seemed.  It  was  polarized  energy — each  atom  a 
point  where  complex  forces  crystallize — each  mole 
cule  a  balancing  and  interlocking  of  such  atoms  into 
substance.  Matter,  as  Bradfield  made  her  conceive 
it,  was  as  spiritual  as  her  own  old  notion  of  spirit. 
These  forces  her  mother  decried  as  "earth-forces" 
played  through  the  farthest  stars  of  deepest  heaven; 
but  not  more  wonderfully  than  through  the  nearest 
grain  of  earthly  dust.  The  dust  itself  was  force. 
And  spirit  conceived  as  a  something  that  can  float 
free  of  matter  was  more  material  than  spirit  as  a 
function  of  matter.  A  function  cannot  float  away, 
and  floating  is  a  material  process. 

When  Marion  had  read  the  passage  on  the  nature 
of  "soul"  which  Bradfield  had  inserted  in  his  account 
of  the  first  trace  of  nerve-tissue  in  the  Platodaria  she 
found  herself  indulging  in  a  curious  speculation. 
Would  a  man  who  felt  soul  and  body  to  be  so  indis 
soluble  a  unity  feel  as  he  touched  a  woman's  lips  that 
it  was  her  soul  he  touched?  And  would  there  be 

therefore  in  his  kiss  an  exaltation ?  At  this  point 

she  checked  that  train  of  thought,  and  turned  her 
mind  forcibly  back  to  the  life-story  of  her  Platodari- 
an  ancestors.  But  trains  of  thought  so  checked  in  con- 


THE    CHASM  81 

sciousness  are  inclined  to  complete  themselves  sub 
consciously,  and  after  she  had  turned  off  her  elec 
tric  reading  lamp,  her  head  sunk  in  her  pillow  and 
her  conscious  soul  in  sleep,  she  dreamed  she  kissed 
Walt  Bradfield  on  the  lips,  and  was  trying  to  explain 
to  him  that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  but  it  was  the 
fault  of  his  book. 

As  he  sat  opposite  her  in  the  launch  this  morning, 
a  casual  glance  at  his  lips  suddenly  and  for  the  first 
time  brought  the  memory  of  that  dream  of  the  night 
into  her  consciousness.  Mr.  Bradfield  was  talking, 
but  suddenly  lost  hold  of  his  idea.  He  looked  at 
Marion  closely,  but  contrary  to  her  custom  her  eyes 
would  not  meet  his.  He  wondered  what  could  have 
made  her  of  a  sudden  so  astonishingly  beautiful. 
That  problem  he  soon  solved.  The  answer  was 
simply  that  she  was  blushing,  and  there  was  no  sun 
set  cloud  that  could  compete  with  the  fleeting  rose 
hue  of  her  skin.  But  why  was  she  blushing?  Being 
unable  to  solve  that,  Walt  asked  her. 

"I'm  not,"  she  protested. 

He  insisted  that  he  had  eyes — fortunately. 

"Well,  then,  it's  sunburn.  I  sunburn  very  easily. 
I  freckle,  too — isn't  that  dreadful?  What  is  that 
stone  house  over  there?" 

"That  stone  house  over  there  is  a  pretext  for  a 
highly  undesirable  change  of  subject." 

"Oh,"  said  Marion.  "There  is  a  canal  lock !  And 
there's  the  mouth  of  a  river!  That  must  be  the 
Hennepin  canal.  Evidently  that's  the  lock-keeper's 
house." 

"Nothing  I  was  saying  could  have  caused  it,"  said 
Bradfield,  reasoning  aloud.  "Consequently  it  was 


83  THE     CHASM 

something  you  thought  of  just  then.  What  was  it 
you  thought  of?" 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  lock-keeper?"  The 
cross  purpose  conversation  amused  her  and  gave  her 
time  to  realize  that  it  was  no  such  criminal  thing, 
after  all,  to  have  dreamed  of  kissing  a  man. 

"Well,  I  see  you're  a  secretive  person — likewise  a 
stubborn,"  he  observed.  "But  you  can't  deprive 
me  of  the  satisfaction  of  having  seen  it.  It  was 
somewhat  the  loveliest  thing  I  have  ever  beheld." 

"If  that's  so,  I  shall  have  to  cultivate  it." 

"Have  mercy!  You  are  sufficiently  disturbing 
normally."  He  noticed  that  his  hand  was  trembling, 
and  laughed. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  demanded. 

"People  who  won't  tell  things  don't  get  things 
told  them." 

"It's  bad  manners  to  laugh  and  not  tell  why." 

"Not  half  so  tantalizing  as  to  blush  and  not  tell 
why.  But  I'll  tell  if  you  will." 

She  declined  hastily. 

"Ah  ha !"  he  exclaimed.  "That  proves  you  know 
why  you  blushed." 

"But  you  don't!"  she  exulted.  "And  that  isn't 
half.  You  aren't  going  to." 

"You're  doing  it  again!"  he  exclaimed.  "Good 
God!" 

She  gave  a  start.  "That  last  remark  led  me  to 
suppose  the  engine  was  about  to  explode !" 

"The  engine  isn't!" 

She  could  not  keep  the  laughter  out  of  her  eyes; 
and  when  he  saw  it  his  whole  soul  laughed,  a  spasm 
of  silent,  joyous  laughter,  flooding  his  nerves  in  spite 


THE     CHASM  83 

of  the  protest  of  reason.  The  happiness  in  that 
was  much  too  keen.  Reason  said:  "Don't  do  that, 
Walt.  Don't  let  yourself  fall  in  love  with  the 
Countess  de  Hohenfels."  And  reason  would  prob 
ably  have  been  obeyed  had  it  not  been  for  certain 
charming  little  intimations  that  the  not-yet  Countess 
de  Hohenfels  was  letting  herself  fall  in  love  with 
him — or  doing  it  without  her  permission.  He  form 
ulated  no  hopes,  but  the  possibility  made  her  fear 
fully  attractive  to  him. 

"You  are  fun,  Walt  Bradfield,"  she  said.  "What 
reader  of  those  deep  books  of  yours  would  guess  how 
you  can  laugh?" 

He  noticed  the  engine  igniting  irregularly,  stood 
up  and  leaned  over  it,  reduced  the  flow  of  gasoline : 
and  when  he  reseated  himself,  it  was  beside  her. 

"Doesn't  this  make  the  boat  trim  badly?"  she 
suggested. 

"The  boat  doesn't  mind,"  he  said.     "Do  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  let  a  mere  boat  outdo  me  in  indif 
ference,"  said  she,  her  eyes  fairly  crinkling. 

He  acknowledged  the  hit  with  a  laugh.  "It  isn't 
indifference,  though." 

"Indeed!"    She  drew  herselT  up  and  faced  him. 

"Not  on  the  part  of  the  boat.  My  sitting  over 
here  really  does  throw  it  a  little  off  its  balance." 

"Supersensitive  boat!"  she  scoffed. 

"It  never  blushes,  though.  Oh,  Lord!"  He  pulled 
sharply  on  the  tiller-lever.  The  boat  swung  to  the 
left,  away  from  a  rocky  islet.  He  looked  anxiously 
at  the  shore  and  at  the  water  alongside  them  and  for 
a  moment  held  his  breath. 

"What's  wrong?"  exclaimed  Marion. 


84  THE    CHASM 

"We  just  sidled  over  the  middle  of  a  wing-dam," 
he  answered  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Fortunately 
there  was  water  enough."  He  looked  back,  noticing 
the  part  of  the  dam  which  they  had  crossed.  In 
turning  the  boat  down-stream  again  the  easing  of  the 
rudder  drew  his  arm  along  the  gunwale — past  her. 
He  did  not  think  of  it  as  being  around  her,  his  mind 
still  being  on  the  wing-dam;  but  a  subtle  and  lovely 
sensation  stole  through  him,  a  faint  fragrance  from 
her  garments  or  her  hair,  a  delicate  knowledge  of 
her  nearness  caroling  in  his  nerves.  As  she  turned 
to  look  at  the  island,  her  face  was  toward  him  and 
her  elbow  rested  lightly  on  his  arm.  His  sleeve 
seemed  sentient  of  the  touch. 

"Look  at  that  cunning  cabin!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Lew    Anderson's — the    blacksmith    on    Second 
Avenue.     Built  it  himself.    This  is  his  boat  we  just 
missed  sinking."     He  was  finding  articulation  dif 
ficult. 

"Would  we  have  sunk?"  she  asked. 
"Oh,  we'd  have  got  her  off  and  run  ashore  be 
fore  she  filled." 

"Wouldn't  that  have  been  exciting?" 
He  forgot  to  answer,  and  she  looked  at  him  as 
though  to  see  what  he  was  thinking. 
,  "I  am  looking  at  those  Rossetti  lips  of  yours,"  he 
said.  He  intended  to  speak  the  words  lightly,  but 
his  voice  played  him  the  trick  of  expressing  his  real 
instead  of  his  make-believe  emotion.  His  real  emo 
tion  made  her  turn  away  with  a  quick,  deep  intake  of 
breath.  Her  shoulders  drew  up  a  little — with  the 
memory  of  her  dream  and  the  feeling  of  the  danger 
of  its  coming  true.  She  seemed  to  have  eaten  of  the 


THE    CHASM  85 

lotus,  and  the  energy  necessary  to  move  or  speak  or 
think  had  dissolved  under  the  influence  of  that  in 
sidious  flower.  The  vital  electricity  which  stores 
and  restores  itself  in  living  nerves  and  is  wont  at  a 
motor  thought  to  pour  itself  into  paths  leading  to 
muscular  action  seemed  to  have  flowed  away  into 
the  blood  that  throbbed  in  her  temples  and  flushed 
her  cheeks. 

Walt  too  had  eaten  of  the  flower  of  enervation. 
The  vital  electricity  whose  total  was  his  soul  was 
raying  with  unknown  spirituo-bodily  forces.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  glorified  form  of  gravitation  drawing 
them  close  enough  to  kiss.  She  succeeded  in  turning 
her  face  away  only  by  overcoming  an  exquisite  force 
operating  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  had  never 
known  anything  so  adorable  as  that  ardent,  dream 
like  bending  of  her  head. 

She  had  let  Feodor  kiss  her  once  when  they  found 
themselves  secluded  for  a  moment  among  the  great 
evergreens  of  the  Pincio  with  a  solemn  sunset  flam 
ing  down  behind  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's;  but  that 
had  been  a  voluntary  act  of  hers,  a  reasonable  thing 
she  deliberately  decided  to  do  and  did,  because  she 
loved  Fedya  and  he  was  dying  to  kiss  her.  In  that 
her  own  nature  had  played  no  such  part  as  now, 
when  against  reason  and  will  she  wanted  to  kiss  Walt 
Bradfield — a  desire  forming  itself  into  an  idea  as 
definite  as  an  act. 

UI  mustn't,  I  mustn't!"  she  told  herself,  and  rose 
intending  to  sit  on  the  other  side  of  the  launch. 

Before  he  knew  it  he  had  caught  her  hand,  but  it 
seemed  to  her  it  was  not  so  much  by  her  hand  he 
drew  her  as  by  an  exquisite  invisible  net  enveloping 


86  THE     CHASM 

and  drawing  her  whole  body.  "I  mustn't !"  she  said 
aloud  and  drew  away  her  hand.  Her  voice,  vibrat 
ing  with  unfamiliar  emotion,  did  not  seem  her  own. 
She  steadied  herself  by  taking  hold  of  a  rod  that 
supported  the  canvas  roof.  "Are  you  sure  you  know 
where  this  boat  is  running?"  she  asked. 

He  had,  in  fact,  forgotten  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  a  boat — racing  twenty-five  miles  an  hour  down  a 
river  full  of  just  submerged  wing-dams.  He  turned 
with  a  start  to  the  indispensable  business  of  piloting, 
and  that  turning  of  his  attention  seemed  to  free  her 
a  little  from  the  overmastering  spell. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
launch,  not  looking  at  him,  leaning  forward  on  her 
elbow,  staring  out  with  troubled,  unseeing  eyes  across 
the  gray,  steel-colored  water.  The  thought  of  Feo- 
dor  was  linked  with  a  pang  at  her  disloyalty.  Till 
now,  since  she  loved  Feodor  and  did  not  love  Brad- 
field,  she  had  felt  perfectly  free  to  enjoy  the  com 
panionship  of  the  working-class  thinker.  Now  she 
began  to  see  that  she  had  formulated  the  case  too 
simply.  Love  and  non-love  were  not  the  two  dis 
tinct,  easily  distinguishable  things  she  had  assumed 
them  to  be.  The  lovely  languor  that  had  stolen 
through  her  was  telling  every  fiber  that  Walt  Brad- 
field's  kiss  would  be  sweeter  than  the  one  on  the 
Pincian  hill.  The  knowledge  was  painful.  It  upset 
everything.  She  did  not  want  it  to  be  so.  Did  it 
mean  that  she  loved  Bradfield?  A  thousand  mem- 
'ories  of  Feodor  said  no.  The  main  ideas  and  pur 
poses  of  her  life  were  obscured  and  threatened  by 
this  inexplicable  allurement.  Old  feelings  rose  to 
defend  themselves  against  the  vivid  new  invader: 


THE     CHASM  87 

but  the  mental  pain  of  the  conflict  was  mingled  with 
a  sweetness  beyond  violets,  gleam  of  stars,  or  sound 
of  exquisite  chords. 

The  man's  intoxicating  impulse  to  fold  her  and 
hold  her  and  tell  her  he  loved  her,  having  been 
thwarted  in  that  instant  when  she  made  him  realize 
the  necessity  of  piloting,  all  his  good  reasons  for  not 
making  love  to  her  came  flashing  back  upon  his  mind. 
He  looked  at  her  nervously  for  signs  of  reaction. 
One  instant  he  feared  that  what  kept  her  from  look 
ing  at  him  was  anger:  and  the  next  he  hoped  it  was 
self-distrust.  He  was  eager  to  know;  but  he  quickly 
rejected,  when  it  formed  itself  in  his  mind,  the  ques 
tion  "Are  you  angry?"  It  was  too  likely  to  convey 
the  suggestion  that  she  ought  to  be.  The  only  other 
question  worth  asking  he  judged  impolitic.  If  she 
was  not  asking  herself  whether  she  loved  him,  there 
was  no  use  in  his  asking.  And  if  she  was  asking 
herself,  then  whatever  answer  she  formed  in  her 
own  mind  was  likely  to  be  more  favorable  than  any 
she  would  voice  for  him.  And  after  all,  he  reflected, 
what  difference  would  it  make  how  near  loving  him 
she  was  at  this  moment?  Her  class  feeling  would 
keep  her  from  marrying  him.  Of  that  he  was  cer 
tain.  His  own  class  feeling  had  hitherto  helped 
him  to  regard  a  marriage  with  her  not  only  as  im 
possible,  uut  even  as  unwise — from  the  point  of  view 
of  his  own  intellectual  and  spiritual  ambitions. 

She  was  wondering  whether  she  would  dare  tell  De 
Hohenfels.  She  tried  to  persuade  herself  there  was 
nothing  to  tell.  Nothing  had  really  happened.  But 
how  would  he  take  it  if  he  knew  she  wanted  some 
thing  to  happen?  It  surely  would  not  do  to  tell  him 


88  THE    CHASM 

such  a  thing  in  a  letter,  but  she  resolved  that  some 
kind  of  letter  should  be  mailed  to  him  that  very 
night — in  spite  of  her  earlier  conclusion  that  she 
could  not  write  until  she  had  talked  with  her  father. 
As  she  sat  looking  across  the  slate-colored  waves  she 
was  deciding  to  go  to  her  father  that  evening  and 
insist  on  his  listening  to  what  she  had  to  say.  Then 
she  would  write  to  Fedya. 

Into  her  consciousness,  interrupting  her  train  of 
thought,  stole  the  lovely  sensation  that  filled  her 
lungs  each  time  she  breathed.  It  was  like  the  scent 
of  clover  in  the  sun.  She  remembered  the  look  of 
Bradfield's  clear,  sun-browned  skin,  the  slight  rosi- 
ness  that  showed  through  it,  the  suggestion  of  pure, 
abounding  blood  and  outdoor  health.  Was  it  the 
magnetism  of  health  in  that  tiller  of  the  earth,  that 
breather  of  pure  air,  which  so  affected  her?  She 
glanced  at  him.  It  surprised  her  somehow  to  see 
that  he  was  absorbed  in  thought,  not  looking  at  her, 
apparently  not  aware  of  her  presence.  She  remem 
bered  the  lily  he  had  not  taken  as  a  souvenir  of  her. 
He  sighed,  as  though  reaching  some  undesired  but 
accepted  conclusion,  then  looked  at  her.  Their  eyes 
met.  He  smiled  a  little,  in  a  manner  that  kept  her 
from  looking  away,  a  tender  amusement  that  took 
her  into  his  confidence  and  compelled  the  gift  of 
hers.  "Don't  you  think  we  had  better  talk  social 
ism?"  he  said. 

Her  face  lit  up  with  understanding  and  sympathy. 
She  liked  his 'frank  acceptance  of  the  fact  that  they 
were  attracted,  his  readiness  not  to  make  too  much 
of  it,  his  ability  to  take  a  human,  not  merely  a  mas- 


THE    CHASM  89 

culine,  view  of  the  sex  duel.  "Socialism?"  she  said. 
"Well,  yes.  Or  why  not  try  dynamist  monism?" 

Their  attention  was  drawn  by  a  far-off  rumble. 

"Just  look  at  that  storm  ahead  of  us!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Why,  there's  the  Buffalo  station!  We've 
passed  Spinnyville."  He  looked  around. 

"I  think  you  are  rather  an  absent-minded  pilot," 
she  observed. 

"It  does  look  like  it — to-day."  He  drew  the  rud 
der  over  and  the  speed-boat  wheeled,  leaning  to  star 
board  and  turning  almost  in  her  own  length.  He 
headed  up  the  river,  got  his  bearings,  then  looked 
back  at  the  clouds  which  stretched  from  south  to 
northwest  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  "Funny  I 
didn't  notice  that,"  he  muttered.  There  was  a 
flicker  of  lightning  reddening  the  cloud.  He  quick 
ly  pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it  until  he  heard 
the  thunder.  "About  eighteen  seconds,"  he  said. 
"Over  three  and  a  half  miles." 

"Isn't  that  fun?"  she  said.  "Just  how  do  you  get 
that?" 

"Eleven  hundred  feet  a  second."  He  was  trying 
to  judge  the  speed  of  the  storm  from  its  appearance. 

"Can  we  make  Spinnyville?"  she  asked. 

"Easily.  One  minute's  run.  But  possibly  this 

will  be  an  all  day  rain "  He  looked  at  her 

tailored  suit. 

"Could  we  make  Moline?" 

"We  could  make  the  lower  end  of  Rock  Island  in 
seventeen  or  eighteen  minutes,  leave  the  launch  there, 
and  go  home  on  the  car." 

"Will  the  storm  give  us  eighteen  minutes?" 


90  THE     CHASM 

"If  it  has  just  our  speed,  we  are  ten  or  twelve 
minutes  ahead  of  it  now,  and  of  course  we'd  hold 
that  lead.  I  don't  think  it  can  be  traveling  enough 
faster  than  we  to  cut  the  lead  to  nothing." 

"A  race  with  a  storm !    Try  it !" 

He  advanced  the  spark  to  the  last  notch,  showed 
her  how  to  steer  and  where  to  hold,  looked  over  the 
connections  on  his  coils,  tightened  a  screw  here  and 
there,  filled  up  his  oil-cups,  and  once  more  took 
charge  of  the  tiller-lever.  The  boat  was  at  top 
most  speed,  rushing  under  the  drive  of  sixty  horse 
power.  "There  goes  Spinnyville!"  he  said,  pointing 
back  over  the  stern  quarter  to  a  country  inn.  The 
rapidity  with  which  it  receded  gave  her  a  sense  of 
security.  The  storm  rampant  looked  motionless; 
but  Bradfield  saw  it  had  grown  much  higher. 

"Goodbye  Spinnyville  I"  she  called.  "Oh  dear  I 
I  suppose  I'll  have  to  dine  with  Aunt  Farnsworth 
after  all!" 

"Will  you  eat  with  me^-some  place  in  Rock  Is 
land?"  he  asked,  hesitatingly. 

Marion  considered.     "Where,  for  instance?" 

He  was  at  a  loss.  The  only  place  he  could  think 
of — Jane's  Lightning  Lunch — did  not  strike  him  as 
particularly  appropriate.  "Where  would  I  take 
you,"  he  asked,  "if  I  were  Feodor?" 

She  smiled  at  his  tit-for-tat,  but  the  question 
bothered  her.  She  did  not  know  the  extent  of  that 
fifty  dollar  a  month  purse  of  his;  she  was  reluctant 
about  suggesting  an  expensive  place  and  unwilling  to 
go  to  a  cheap  one.  She  was  perfectly  certain  poor 
Bradfield  had  never  in  his  life  ordered  a  dinner  a 
la  carte  and  was  bound  to  make  a  botch  of  it.  The 


THE     CHASM  91 

question  made  them  both  uncomfortably  class-con 
scious.  She  saw  he  would  attribute  a  refusal  solely 
to  her  sense  of  his  social  inferiority.  "You  would 
take  me  to  The  Harms,"  she  answered  finally. 

He  was  silent,  trying  to  understand  her  hesita 
tion,  uncertain  now  whether  he  ought  to  ask  her  to 
go  with  him. 

"There's  the  island  with  the  cabin!"  she  said, 
looking  ahead. 

A  stab  of  lightning  behind  them  lit  up  their  faces, 
and  shortly  afterward  the  sound  broke  on  them — 
much  louder  than  before.  Bradfield  took  out  his 
watch  and  caught  the  exact  time  of  the  next  peal. 
"That  doesn't  look  very  good,"  said  he  after  a 
moment.  "That  was  only  a  couple  of  miles  away." 
He  looked  back.  "That's  all  it  is,  too,"  he  said. 
He  saw  a  white,  contorted  fringe  of  cloud  blown  out 
before  the  black  body  of  the  tempest. 

"Can't  you  figure  the  speed  from  the  two  flashes?" 
she  asked. 

Seeing  that  the  method  of  calculating  distance  by 
sound  had  caught  her  fancy,  he  took  a  pencil  and  en 
velope.  She  leaned  over  looking  at  his  figures.  "Ac 
cording  to  that,"  he  said,  "it's  making  two  miles  to 
our  one.  It  will  beat  us  all  hollow." 

"Perhaps  the  first  thunder  you  timed  came  from 
farther  back  in  the  storm." 

"Yes,  but  look  at  the  thing.  It  must  be  coming 
fifty  miles  an  hour!" 

The  storm-clouds  had  gained  enormously  on  them 
even  while  they  were  playing  with  their  figures. 
When  they  passed  the  wing-dam  they  had  run  over 
coming  down  and  cleared  the  head  of  the  island, 


92  THE     CHASM 

they  saw  a  great,  black  arm  of  cloud  above  the  Iowa 
hills  not  half  a  mile  away,  and  farther  back  a  falling 
wall  of  rain.  Walt  pulled  the  rudder  square  across 
the  stern,  made  the  launch  whirl,  and  headed  back 
down-stream.  "We've  got  to  get  out  of  that!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Us  to  the  cabin!" 

From  cloud  to  earth  or  from  earth  to  cloud  there 
leapt  a  blinding  blade  of  light,  a  shocking  crash  of 
sound.  It  fell  half  way  up  the  hill  and  split  a  mas 
sive  oak-tree  into  three  great  gleaming  splinters. 
One  fragment  of  the  trunk  shot  off  like  a  chip  from 
an  axe,  and  two  large  limbs  sank  down  not  wholly 
severed.  Marion  gripped  the  edge  of  the  seat  and 
turned  pale.  Bradfield's  nerves  were  shaken.  An 
icy  wind  came  rushing  up  the  river  piling  up  waves 
and  tearing  off  their  tops.  The  canvas  roof  filled 
and  nearly  knocked  the  boat  over. 

He  was  too  anxious  to  get  ashore  quickly.  Rather 
than  turn  broadside  to  the  wind  by  running  around 
the  wing-dam  which  lay  between  them  and  the  island 
landing  he  headed  straight  across  it  holding  as  nearly 
as  he  could  on  the  point  he  had  gone  over  it  before. 
When  they  reached  it  the  launch  struck  and  stopped 
with  a  crash  that  threw  them  forward  against  the 
bulkhead.  Trembling  with  the  futile  driving  of  the 
propeller,  the  boat  began  to  swing  down-stream. 
Bradfield  picked  himself  up,  and  instinctively  threw 
off  the  power.  "Are  you  hurt?"  he  shouted. 

"No,"  she  called,  though  she  really  did  not  know 
whether  she  was  or  not.  "What  shall  I  do?" 

"Sit  still  I" 

The  water  was  coming  through  the  stove-in  bot 
tom,  and  the  rising  waves  slapped  in  as  the  current 


THE     CHASM  93 

swung  the  stern  down-stream.  Keel  and  wheel  cleared 
the  dam,  but  the  bow,  now  pointing  up-stream,  stuck 
fast  on  the  rock.  Bradfield  reversed  the  engine, 
threw  in  the  switch,  and  rocked  the  flywheel.  The 
engine  started  backing,  but  the  bow  was  somehow 
wedged  or  impaled  on  a  point  of  rock.  He  retarded 
the  spark  and  opened  the  throttle  for  more  power, 
but  in  vain.  "Get  clear  to  the  stern  1"  he  called  to 
Marion. 

She  obeyed,  wetting  her  feet  in  the  water  that  now 
covered  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  but  the  shifting  of 
her  weight  did  not  free  the  bow.  Leaving  the  pro 
peller  backing,  Bradfield  jumped  up  on  the  bow 
deck,  lowered  himself  knee  deep  in  the  water,  got 
foothold  on  the  rocks  of  the  dam,  and  with  all  his 
strength  pulled  up  on  the  painter.  She  came  free 
with  a  jerk  that  made  him  lose  his  balance  and  left 
him  on  the  dam.  He  threw  himself  after  the  back 
ing  boat,  caught  a  precarious  hold  with  his  right  arm 
over  the  bow  and  clung  there  half  submerged  in  the 
icy  water.  "Can  you  help  me  up?"  he  shouted. 

Marion  ran  forward  and  climbed  up  on  the  little 
bow  deck.  The  wind  nearly  swept  her  off,  but  she 
caught  herself  and  kneeling  grasped  his  left  arm  with 
both  hands  and  pulled  him  up  till  he  got  his  weight 
on  the  deck.  He  scrambled  up  and  darted  for  the 
engine.  The  launch  was  backing  in  a  circle,  her  rud 
der  jammed  sidewise:  and  the  water  was  almost 
up  to  the  base  of  the  cylinders.  A  little  more  and 
there  would  be  no  power  to  run  her  ashore  before 
she  sank.  He  started  her  ahead,  headed  her  toward 
shore,  then  turned  and  helped  Marion  down  from 
the  wind-swept  deck.  "We're  all  right  I"  he  cried. 


94  THE     CHASM 

"We'll  make  it!"  He  shivered  with  the  chill  of  his 
watersoaked  garments. 

Great  drops  of  rain  came  driving  slant-wise :  the 
lightning  flashed  on  the  hills.  The  boat  grounded 
eight  or  ten  feet  from  dry  land.  He  jumped  over 
board  and  waded  ashore  with  the  painter,  but  could 
not  get  the  bow  in  far  enough  for  Marion  to  make 
it.  He  came  back  into  the  water  and  put  up  his  arms 
for  her. 

"Come!"  he  said. 

She  leaned  down  to  him  quickly,  her  arms  about 
his  neck.  He  took  her,  meeting  her  expected  weight 
and  the  unexpected  pressure  of  the  wind  blowing  her 
damp  skirt  tight  against  him  and  sweeping  wet  ten 
drils  of  her  hair  across  his  eyes.  As  he  turned  with 
her  and  waded  swiftly  through  the  water,  his  pur 
pose  of  getting  her  ashore  dry-shod  could  not  keep 
out  all  joy  of  even  such  fulfilment  of  his  desire  to 
have  her  in  his  arms.  Too  incidental  to  be  real  ful 
filment,  too  brief  to  be  then  quite  realized,  it  was  a 
thing  to  dream  back  to  afterward. 

"Run!"  he  commanded  as  she  gained  her  balance 
on  the  shore.  "To  the  cabin!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  demanded. 

"Get  the  boat  in.     She's  going  to  sink!"     He 

|  found  two  round  barkless  limbs,  placed  one  under  the 

bow,  another  on  the  shore,  and  pulled  on  the  painter. 

"Let  me  help,"  she  said,  seizing  the  rope. 

Together  they  dragged  the  boat  in,  the  cold 
rain  beating  in  their  faces,  and  then  they  ran  for  the 
cabin. 


VIII 

SAFE  inside,  with  the  cabin  door  shut  against 
rain,  wind  and  lightning,  Marion  wilted  into  a 
chair  near  the  deal  table,  leaned  over  with  her 
face  between  her  hands,  and  shivering  uncontrolla 
bly,  began  to  cry. 

Walt  looked  at  her  helplessly.  Her  response  had 
been  so  quick  and  adequate  when  he  had  called  on 
her  in  their  danger  that  he  had  no  idea  she  had  been 
undergoing  a  strain  such  as  this  reaction  indicated. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  sitting  down  beside 
her. 

She  straightened  up,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
solicitude  in  his  face.  "How  perfectly  silly  of  me!" 
she  exclaimed.  She  laughed  hysterically,  then  reso 
lutely  controlling  herself  she  took  off  her  soiled 
gloves  and  dripping  hat. 

"You've  earned  the  right  to  be  a  little  silly,"  said 
Walt,  speaking  quietly.  "I  never  would  have  got 
back  into  that  boat  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  And 
with  your  skirts — the  wind  came  near  taking  you 
into  the  river." 

The  little  cabin  was  lit  weirdly  by  three  quick 
angry  flashes.  Then  broke  the  thunder  like  a  whole 
sea  overhead. 

95 


96  THE     CHASM 

Marion  shrank  from  it.  "I  had  no  idea  I  was 
such  a  baby!" 

His  hand  moved  with  protective  impulse  to  her 
shoulder.  She  leaned  closer  as  she  would  have  to 
Lady  Diotima,  with  a  sense  of  refuge  from  the 
threatening  river,  the  rain,  and  the  sudden,  sweep 
ing  cold.  The  broad  soft  coils  of  her  hair  lay 
beautiful  against  his  cheek.  He  breathed  its  fra 
grance.  The  sweetness  that  suffused  them  was  love 
lier  because  not  sought.  For  her,  not  thinking  of  it 
then,  it  made  her  refuge  more  complete.  But  in  a 
few  moments  it  became  the  main  thing,  a  dear  com 
pulsion  weaving  its  fairy  meshes  round  their  souls, 
drawing  them  close  and  warm  amid  the  rattling  of 
the  water-covered  window,  the  pouring  of  the  rain 
upon  the  roof.  The  idea  that  she  ought  not  to  leave 
his  arm  around  her  did  not  lead  to  action.  Inaction 
was  too  sweet.  She  let  the  idea  dissolve,  closed  her 
eyes  happily,  and  settled  herself  better —  like  a  child 
that  is  content. 

Then  she  knew  that  if  she  stayed  there  another 
moment  their  lips  would  meet.  Something  powerful 
within  her  said  "Stay!"  She  started  to  pretend  to 
herself  that  it  wasn't  so;  then  broke  abruptly  from 
the  grasp  of  self  deception,  breathing  the  name  of 
Feodor,  and  rose  as  one  drowsy,  unwillingly  awak 
ing. 

"How  are  we  ever  going  to  get  home?"  she  asked, 
going  to  the  window. 

Walt  had  risen  with  the  impulse  to  follow  her. 
For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  She  turned  and 
looked  at  him.  "A  fisherman's  house-boat,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  Iowa  shore.  "We  will  signal  him  to 


THE     CHASM  97 

take  us  off.  Perhaps  we  can  get  a  farmer  to  drive 
us  in  to  the  street-car." 

"Suppose  the  storm  doesn't  stop?  If  we  were  left 
here  all  night — it  would  epater  Moline  a  little  more 
than  I  bargained  for." 

"Moline  mustn't  know." 

"My  father  would.  Oh,  really,  it  would  be 
dreadful!" 

"It  isn't  likely  to  last  till  dark.  We  must  have 
a  fire." 

"You  must  be  frozen,"  she  said. 

He  glanced  at  her  wet  shoes.  He  started  a  fire 
in  the  stone  fire-place,  and  piled  it  high  with  logs. 
The  wind  rushing  overhead  soon  made  the  flame 
roar  in  the  chimney.  From  a  locker  he  produced 
glasses,  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  one  of  chalybeate 
water.  "Here's  something  we  need,"  he  said. 

He  found  no  argument  about  it,  as  he  would  have 
with  Alice.  Marion  took  the  whiskey  as  a  matter 
of  course.  "Well,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Things 
look  better  I"  She  set  down  the  empty  glass  and 
moved  nearer  the  fire.  "You  haven't  a  cigarette 
there  in  your  friend's  locker,  have  you?" 

"Makin's." 

She  nodded.  He  handed  her  a  big  sack  of  tobacco 
and  an  orange  booklet  of  Riz  La  Croix  papers. 
Looking  with  the  eyes  of  the  average  American, 
Bradfield  had  hitherto  regarded  girls'  smoking  as  an 
indication  of  moral  depravity;  but  as  he  watched 
Marion  roll  her  cigarette — the  cachet  of  refinement 
on  every  movement  of  her  graceful,  efficient  hands — 
he  decided  that  in  this  opinion  he  had  been  a  muddle- 
headed  provincial.  He  thought  of  the  soothing  effect 


98  THE    CHASM 

of  tobacco  on  the  nerves  of  this  girl  who  was  just 
emerging  from  a  condition  of  hysteria;  and  then  he 
rejected  that  excuse  and  all  excuses  as  unnecessary. 
If  she  wanted  to  smoke  that  was  reason  enough  for 
her,  and  for  him.  He  fished  out  a  cob-pipe  of  Lew 
Anderson's  and  filled  it,  and  placed  a  tin  box  full  of 
matches  near  her.  She  tried  to  light  one  on  the  sole 
of  her  shoe  but  it  was  too  wet. 

"You  must  take  those  off,"  he  said.  "Here  are  a 
pair  of  Lew's  slippers  for  you — just  the  right  size." 

"The  antique  jest  shall  be  forgiven  you,"  she  an 
swered,  lighting  her  cigarette,  " — for  the  sake  of 
your  sensible  suggestion."  Whereupon,  undoing  their 
corded  silk  laces,  she  drew  off  her  high  tan  shoes. 
He  noticed  a  delicate  monogram,  two  M's  in  brown 
silk  above  her  ankle.  He  placed  a  box  before  the 
fire  for  her  to  rest  her  feet  on,  then  set  her  shoes 
and  coat  and  hat  to  dry. 

"How  about  yourself?"  she  said.  "You  must  be 
wet  to  the  skin." 

"With  your  gracious  permission,"  he  answered, 
"I  shall  now  retire  to  the  dressing-room — alias  be 
hind  the  cupboard."  He  suited  the  action  to  the 
word,  opening  the  cupboard  door  for  additional 
screened  space,  and  reappearing  after  a  few  min 
utes  in  Lew  Anderson's  corduroys,  blue  flannel  shirt, 
and  felt  moccasins. 

As  she  sat  before  the  mounting  flame,  Marion  had 
been  contrasting  this  forthright  solution  of  the  wet 
clothes  question  with  George  Pearson's.  George 
would  never  have  dreamed  of  having  either  of  them 
do  anything  but  sit  all  afternoon  in  discomfort.  She 


THE     CHASM  99 

reflected  that  in  his  own  environment  Walt  dealt  with 
things  with  firmness  and  certainty.  Difficulties  arose 
only  when  he  approached  hers. 

Thinking  of  the  girl's  fearless,  first-hand  attitude 
toward  things,  the  typical  attitude  Nietzsche  called 
"value-creating,"  Bradfield  went  on  to  wonder  how 
far  present  master-ethics,  the  life-expression  of  men 
and  women  economically  secure  and  free,  would  re 
semble  the  ethics  of  the  masterless  and  slaveless 
future.  Slave-ethics — the  product  of  poverty  and 
economic  oppression — would  surely  disappear.  As 
he  came  from  behind  the  cupboard  absorbed  in  this, 
he  suddenly  became  aware  that  Marion's  wide  eyes 
were  interestedly  fixed  on  his.  She  was  leaning  back 
luxuriously,  the  firelight  making  her  hair  a  glory  of 
gleaming  lights  and  luring  shadows. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about  so  intently?"  she 
asked. 

When  he  told  her,  she  raised  her  fair  hands  in 
despair.  "That  soulful  gaze!"  she  cried.  "That 
rapt  expression!  I  supposed  of  course  you  were 
thinking  of  me !  To  think  that  I  cannot  compete 
with  'the  ethics  of  dynamist  monism' !" 

"It  was  the  thought  of  you  which  led  me  to  the 
thought  of  that,"  he  explained. 

"I  refuse  to  be  appeased.  The  thought  of  that 
should  have  led  you  to  the  thought  of  me." 

"Fair  lady,  I  have  sinned  against  you,"  said  he. 
humbly.  "What  shall  my  penance  be?" 

"Your  penance?  Let  me  see.  Your  offense  was 
being  guilty  of  prose.  You  are  condemned  to  im 
provise  a  poem  in  praise  of  me." 


100  THE     CHASM 

"De  Bergerac  improvised  a  ballade  while  fighting 
a  duel,"  said  Walt.  "I  will  improvise  this  poem 
while  I  roast  potatoes."  He  went  and  got  the  po 
tatoes  and  buried  them  thoughtfully  in  the  hot  ashes. 

"'No  fair!"  she  said.  "You  are  making  it  up 
beforehand." 

"I  have  to  arrange  my  rhymes,"  he  protested. 
"The  poem  doesn't  have  to  be  done  till  the  potatoes 
are."  He  put  two  bottles  of  beer  out  in  the  rain  to 
cool,  caught  a.  kettleful  of  water  for  coffee,  swung 
it  on  the  crane,  and  proceeded  to  set  the  table  with 
tin  plates,  knives,  forks  and  cups.  Then  he  cut 
pieces  of  cheese  to  toast  on  square  crackers,  got  out 
a  gridiron,  sliced  some  ham,  and  began  broiling  it 
over  the  wood  coals. 

"I  hope  the  poem  is  as  good  as  that  smells,"  she 
said. 

"This  poem  must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated." 

"Is  it  done  already?  What  is  it — a  visible  poem?" 

"One  more  line."  He  poked  a  potato.  He  turned 
the  ham,  then  kneeling  and  holding  the  gridiron  so 
as  not  to  burn  his  hands,  he  recited: 

"Music  of  infinite  waters  descending, 
Ardors  of  lightning  that  gleam  in  our  sky, 
Richer  the  music  and  gleam  of  my  blending — 
Intricate  runes  with  the  meaningful  cry 
Of  opulent  Love  in  his  subtlety  lending 
Name  to  his  secret  of  ardor  unending." 

"It  has  a  noble  sound,"  said  Marion. 

He  made  no  comment,  being  absorbed  in  the  prob 
lem  of  not  burning  the  ham. 

"But  my  dear  poet!"  she  broke  out.  "Am  I  sup 
posed  to  understand  that  poem?" 


THE     CHASM  101 

"My  occupations  clash.  If  I  stop  to  get  my  poem 
appreciated,  my  dinner  will  spoil."  He  hastened  to 
get  the  dinner  on.  They  sat  down  together. 

"I'm  sure  this  beats  Spinnyville,"  she  said.  "I 
never  enjoyed  anything  so  in  my  life.  What  cook 
ever  prepared  a  dinner  and  a  poem  at  the  same 
time — or  what  poet?  But  really  I  couldn't  under 
stand  it — hearing  it  just  once.  Won't  you  repeat  it?" 

He  reveled  in  the  opportunity. 

"The  music  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  "but  this  poem 
was  to  be  in  praise  of  me.  I'm  not  in  it  at  all.  The 
idea  of  leaving  me  out  of  my  very  own  poem !" 

"You  are  everything  in  it.  Let  me  write  it  for 
you."  He  wrote  it,  and  watched  her  read  it.  "The 
guarded  treasure  of  the  runes,"  he  said,  "is — Mar 
ion."  He  spoke  the  name  lingeringly,  loving  the 
sound  of  it. 

She  saw  her  name  in  the  initial  letters.  "You 
lovely  thing!"  she  exclaimed,  and  hugged  it.  Her 
delight  was  to  him  the  fitting  pay  for  poet's  work. 
She  read  it  again.  "It  is  lovely,"  she  said,  " — the 
lovelier  for  being  unlockable  without  the  key." 

"It  gave  me  the  chance  to  call  you  Marion  once 
anyhow — in  a  hidden  way." 

"Why  not  do  it  in  an  unhidden  way?"  she  said. 
As  soon  as  she  had  so  spoken,  however,  she  thought 
of  one  good  reason  why  not.  Feodor!  And  then, 
in  spite  of  all  her  leanings  and  acceptings  and  broad- 
enings,  all  the  old  other  sphere  of  ideas  in  her  grew 
uncomfortable  at  the  thought  of  being  Marion  to 
her  father's  gardener. 

He  read  that  like  a  book.  "Don't  be  afraid,"  he 
said.  "I  shall  not  call  you  that." 


102  THE     CHASM 

That  made  her  ashamed  of  her  narrowness. 
"Here  is  a  man  of  intellect,"  she  thought,  " — a  poet, 
a  soul  full  of  beauty  and  passion!" 

It  seemed  strange  to  her  that  she  should  want  to 
kiss  a  man,  yet  balk  at  having  him  call  her  by  her 
name.  But  so  it  was. 


IX 

MRS.  MOULTON  was  alarmed  about  Marion 
when  the  storm  first  broke  over  Moline, 
but  hoped  the  launch  party  would  by  that 
time  be  safe  in  the  Camanche  club  house.  Since 
thinking  evil  things  brings  evil,  it  was  her  duty 
to  believe  them  safe.  Since  nothing  is  but  think 
ing  makes  it  so,  thinking  of  the  party  as  not 
being  at  Camanche  would  very  likely  cause  them  not 
to  be  there.  Her  visualization  of  them  there 
in  the  grill  room  became  so  distinct  that  she 
could  feel  her  astral  self  at  Camanche  seeing 
eight  people,  among  them  Marion,  sitting  at  a  cer 
tain  table.  Had  anyone  suggested  to  her  that  this 
vision  might  possibly  be  the  optical  memory  of  a 
party  she  had  there  chaperoned  two  years  before, 
her  will  to  believe  the  alluringly  mysterious  astral 
doctrine  would  have  scorned  the  suggestion  as  ema 
nating  from  the  critical,  that  is  from  the  Mephisto- 
phelian,  spirit — "the  spirit  that  ever  denies."  Yield 
ing  to  this  spirit  would  be  evil  because  it  would 
project  from  her  mind  a  powerfully  injurious 
thought-force. 

When  Mrs.   F'arnsworth,   Mr.   Moulton's  sister, 
their  guest  at  dinner,   inquired   for  Marion,    Mrs. 

103 


104.  THE     CHASM 

Moulton  replied  that  she  had  gone  with  a  launch- 
party  to  Camanche. 

Mr.  Farnsworth  conjectured  that  the  storm  would 
compel  them  to  leave  their  launch  up  there  and  re 
turn  by  train. 

"I  hope  they  got  there  before  the  storm  struck," 
said  Mr.  Moulton. 

A  certain  mysterious  intonation  in  his  wife's  as 
surance  that  they  had  reached  Camanche  led  him 
to  suspect  astral  information.  As  soon  as  dinner 
was  over  he  succeeded,  in  spite  of  the  storm,  in  get 
ting  the  steward  at  Camanche  by  telephone.  Then 
he  called  Mrs.  Moulton  from  her  guests.  "No 
launch  party  has  reached  Camanche  to-day,"  said 
he  abruptly. 

Her  real  alarm  made  him  relent. 

"And  none  was  expected  there,"  he  added.  "Now, 
Anne,  don't  get  rattled,  but  tell  me  what  you  do  real 
ly  know  about  this  launch  party.  Whose  party  was 
it?" 

She  had  to  explain  that  Marion,  due  at  the  river 
at  ten-thirty,  and  not  leaving  the  house  till  quarter 
to  eleven,  had  departed  hurriedly  without  giving  her 
any  details. 

"How  did  she  go?" 

"On  foot." 

"Why  didn't  she  take  her  electric?" 

"I  cannot  say."  She  knew  David  imagined  he 
had  shattered  one  of  her  intuitions  against  a  stone 
wall  of  fact,  and  resented  the  air  of  arrogant,  in 
cisive  efficiency  he  always  assumed  on  such  occasions. 
If  anything  did  happen  to  Marion  it  would  be  his 


THE     CHASM  105 

fault  for  creating  all  this  malicious  thought-mag 
netism. 

Mr.  Moulton  sent  for  one  of  the  drivers  and 
directed  him  to  take  Miss  Moulton's  electric  down 
to  the  boat-landing.  She  might  be  there  with  no 
way  to  get  home  through  the  rain.  If  she  was  not 
there,  the  driver  was  to  find  out  and  report  at  once 
what  party  she  went  with  and  which  way  they  had 
gone. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  Mr.  Moulton  was  informed 
by  the  driver,  Eldridge,  that  it  must  have  been  Miss 
Moulton  who  had  gone  out  alone  with  Walt  Brad- 
field.  About  eleven  o'clock  they  had  gone  through 
the  lock,  and  so  down  the  river,  in  Lew  Anderson's 
launch  "Nancy." 

"Bradfield?"  repeated  Mr.  Moulton,  trying  to 
place  the  gentleman. 

"He  works  here,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur,  expect 
ing  to  produce  a  sensation.  "Sits  beside  me  in  the 
servants'  dining-room.  He's  one  of  the  gardeners." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Moulton,  " — that  plan  of 
my  daughter's.  I  didn't  know  she  was  doing  that 
to-day.  That's  all,  Eldridge." 

Eldridge  turned  to  go,  but  hesitated  an  instant  at 
the  door  with  the  idea  that  he  was  to  be  told  to  keep 
this  matter  quiet. 

"Was  there  something  else?"  inquired  Mr.  Moul 
ton. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Eldridge,  getting  out.  "I 
wonder  if  that  old  fox  did  know  about  that  Brad- 
field  deal?"  he  speculated. 

Mr.  Moulton  sank  back  in  his  chair,  irritation  and 


106  THE     CHASM 

perplexity  in  his  soul.  "What  is  that  girl  up  to?" 
thought  he.  He  looked  out  at  the  still  driving  rain 
and  swaying  tree-tops.  He  was  divided  between  con 
cern  for  Marion's  safety  in  the  storm,  and  his  effort 
to  understand  her  motive  in  making  a  companion  of 
a  servant.  Stories  of  refined  women  infatuated  with 
strapping  grooms  and  coachmen  rose  repulsively  in 
his  mind.  He  did  not  accept  that  explanation;  but 
it  remained  in  the  background  of  his  thoughts  ready 
to  reassert  itself. 

The  affair  looked  worse  to  him  when  he  found 
the  girl  had  never  mentioned  Bradfield  to  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Moulton's  amazement  when  she 
heard  Marion  had  gone  in  a  launch  with  the  gar 
dener  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  bring  the  kindly 
side  of  her  philosophy  to  bear.  "Earth-forces"  was 
her  formulation  of  the  same  suspicion  that  had  arisen 
in  her  husband.  For  her,  once  started  along  that 
path  of  thought,  the  very  occupation  of  the  man  was 
symbolic.  Was  he  not  a  digger  in  the  earth?  And 
Marion  had  gone  with  him  upon  the  water.  The  af 
fair  was  of  earth  and  water,  unsanctified  of  fire  and 
air. 

Mr.  Moulton  was  tormented  with  the  impulse  to 
do  something.  Either  the  launch  had  swamped,  or 
it  had  not.  If  it  had,  he  wanted  to  know  it.  If  it 
had  not,  Marion  and  her  companion  must  now  be 
some  place  under  shelter  waiting  for  the  storm  to 
stop.  He  did  not  care  to  have  them  wait.  He 
finally  sent  down  the  river  a  big  launch  with  a  closed 
cabin  and  a  searchlight  to  find  the  "Nancy"  and 
bring  Marion  home. 

This  launch  left  Moline  about  four  o'clock  manned 


THE     CHASM  107 

by  two  old  rivermen  in  charge  of  McChesney, 
a  confidential  agent  in  the  detective  service  of  the 
Plow  Company.  The  rain  stopped  while  they  were 
searching.  Near  dark  they  located  the  stove-in 
"Nancy"  on  the  shore  of  Round  Island;  but  they 
found  the  log-cabin  there  empty.  The  old  fisher 
man  in  the  house-boat  on  the  Iowa  shore  told  Mc 
Chesney  that  when  he  came  out  after  the  storm  to 
look  at  his  nets,  he  had  seen  a  couple  on  the  island 
waving  a  shirt  on  an  oar.  He  had  taken  them  off, 
and  they  had  started  to  walk  to  town. 

The  fisherman  had  told  them  they  might  make 
it  by  dark:  but  they  had  to  pick  their  way  along  the 
edges  of  muddy  roads,  finally  took  to  the  gravel  and 
ties  of  the  railroad  track;  and  as  night  fell,  the  elec 
tric  lights  of  Davenport  sprang  up  white  out  of  the 
blackness  of  the  eastern  horizon.  They  came  to  a 
railroad  bridge  beneath  which  in  the  gloom  a  rain- 
swollen  torrent  ominously  thundered.  They  stopped 
a  moment,  standing  close  together.  The  cold  wind 
and  the  tumult  of  that  unfriendly  elemental  force 
made  the  warmth  and  nearness  of  each  other  more 
precious. 

"You  don't  suppose  the  bridge  is  out,  do  you?" 
said  Marion,  peering  ahead.  "No,  I  can  see  the 
shine  on  the  rails."  She  clasped  Walt's  hand,  and 
welcomed  the  support  of  his  arm  around  her  as 
they  crossed,  stepping  from  tie  to  tie. 

He  was  seized  with  a  wild  happiness,  a  piercing 
realization  of  the  present  moment,  an  intense  feeling 
of  his  identity  and  hers.  The  two  of  them  crossing 
that  bridge  in  the  black  night  were  to  him  the  only 
man  and  woman  in  the  world.  When  they  felt  the 


108  THE     CHASM 

gravel  once  more  underfoot  she  would  have  drawn 
away. 

"A  man,  a  woman,  and  Nature  which  made  us!" 
he  exclaimed.  "There  are  no  classes.  There  is  no 
town.  There  is  nothing  but  you  and  me  and  the 
night." 

His  feeling  swept  her  like  a  poem  creating  a  new 
mood.  The  thunder  of  waters  behind  them  seemed 
no  more  a  hostile  voice,  but  the  voice  of  great  har 
monious  forces  at  work  through  eons  and  eons  creat 
ing  and  maintaining  man.  She  leaned  and  pressed 
her  cheek  against  his  shoulder;  then,  sighing,  with 
drew  her  hand  and  walked  alone.  "For  me,"  she 
said,  "there  is  town.  There  is  Hillcrest,  and  in  it 
another  man  and  woman.  They  are  worrying  about 
me.  They  love  me, — in  a  way, — not  wisely,  not 
trustfully,  not  realizing  I  must  find  or  make  my  own 
path  through  life.  They  do  not  understand  me: 
they  have  no  sympathy  for  the  things  that  I,  being 
I,  must  seek  and  find.  They  will  attack  me  to-night. 
I  will  have  to  defend  myself.  If  he  had  his  way, 
my  father  would  reduce  the  real  me  to  pulp." 

The  great  tenderness  then  filling  Walt  turned  into 
the  channel  of  regret  that  she  too  should  be  subject 
to  all  the  influences  that  shape  our  modern  world  and 
shape  it  wrong.  "Shall  I  go  in  and  help  you  de 
fend  yourself?"  he  asked. 

"No.  The  best  you  could  hope  would  be  to  de 
fend  yourself.  After  you  left  I  should  have  my  own 
fight  just  the  same — or  worse." 

They  caught  the  suburban  car  where  it  crossed 
the  railroad  at  the  lower  end  of  Davenport.  Three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  later,  they  got  off  in  Moline  at 


THE     CHASM  109 

an  electric-lighted  corner  where  the  streets  were 
thickly  lined  with  workingmen's  small  frame  houses, 
their  paint  grimed  with  soot  from  the  factories. 
Back  on  the  bluff  towered  Hillcrest,  its  four  stories 
marked  by  half  a  dozen  brilliant  windows.  Well  to 
the  right  and  left  of  it  stood  other  great  houses,  each 
aloof  on  its  own  spacious  eminence — as  the  castles 
of  robber  barons  stood  on  the  hills  of  Rhineland. 

Walt  and  Marion  ascended  the  hill,  walking 
alongside  a  heavy  terra-cotta  retaining  wall,  from 
the  top  of  which  leafless,  brittle-looking  vines  trailed 
downward.  Between  the  base  of  the  wall  and  the 
concrete  sidewalk  stood  a  row  of  low  shrubs  which 
Walt  himself  had  planted.  The  return  to  use-and- 
wont,  to  Hillcrest,  the  end  of  his  day  with  her,  af 
fected  him  gloomily.  "I  have  a  wretched  premoni 
tion  I  am  not  going  to  see  you  very  much  any  more," 
he  said. 

She  had  the  same  unpleasant  feeling,  but  would 
not  admit  it.  "I  should  think  a  monist  like  you 
would  regard  premonitions  as  superstitious." 

"I  did — yesterday.  Imagination  was  reason- 
guided, — a  light  I  turned  at  will  upon  the  world. 
Therein  lay  my  power.  To-day  that  monism  of 
mine  is  split  by  war  of  reason  and  desire — and  rea 
son  has  the  worst  of  it." 

"Is  that  a  reproach  of  me?" 

"An  analysis  of  me.  I  can  no  longer  distinguish 
between  the  thing  I  desire  and  the  thing  that  is  true. 
I  am  no  better  than  a  bourgeois." 

"That  is  humility!"  she  laughed.  "But  really, 
Walt,  a  little  humility  won't  hurt  you  a  bit." 

He  stopped  abruptly.    Once  more,  as  on  the  dark 


110  THE     CHASM 

bridge  in  the  thunder  of  waters,  there  were  no 
classes.  She  was  woman  to  him,  and  he  was  man. 
An  overpowering  feeling  of  worship  swept  through 
him.  "I  could  kneel  here  at  your  feet  for  that!" 
he  breathed.  "In  fact — I  must!" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  exclaimed.  "No!"  She  caught 
hold  of  his  arms  to  keep  him  from  doing  it.  "It  will 
make  me  cry  if  you  do  that!" 

"No !  Don't  take  it  that  way.  I  will  be  nice  and 
quiet  about  it.  It's  a  thing  I  have  to  do."  He  made 
her  feel  it  as  impulse  and  compulsion  of  the  depths 
of  life  in  him,  and  then  he  knelt  as  though  it  were 
an  act  of  mere  deliberate  resolve.  She  found  a 
beauty  and  richness  in  that  union,  in  one  act,  of 
simple  conscious  will  and  some  uncomprehended 
depth  of  feeling.  The  depth,  and  nothing  of  quiet 
ness,  was  in  his  voice  when  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  her  with  the  cry,  "I  worship  you!" 

She  swayed  back  breathless,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  knowing  clearly  that  this  was  something  more 
than  merely  physical  allurement.  His  cry — which 
she  thought  no  woman  in  the  world  could  have  heard 
unmoved — and  its  echo  in  her  were  of  the  spirit,  or 
more  truly,  of  the  whole  and  single  being  which  man 
is.  It  felt  like  a  great  love.  The  great  desire  of 
,  all  that  day,  thwarted  but  stronger  inwardly  for 
1  every  thwarting,  retreating  only  to  advance  through 
some  new  path  of  feeling,  seized  and  subdued  her. 
Not  indirectly  nor  as  an  accident,  not  with  manner 
unpurposive,  she  bent  and  kissed  him — in  the  mood 
of  answered  prayer. 

He  rose.  A  beam  from  an  arc-lamp  through  the 
young  buds  showed  her  his  face.  In  his  arms  she 


THE    CHASM  111 

whispered:  "I  shouldn't  have  done  it.  I  don't  know 
why  I  did.  I  seemed  to  have  to.  It  was  too  big 
for  me,  Walt." 

"It  was  star-high  above  my  hope!"  he  said. 

"It's  a  pity  to  say  it,  but  you  mustn't,  mustn't  make 
too  much  of  it.  I  must  go  in.  I  need  to  be  alone 
and  think."  She  saw  a  question  forming  in  his  eyes 
and  did  not  dare  listen.  "Come!"  she  said,  and 
using  all  her  will  power  moved  on  up  the  hill.  She 
looked  down  and  up  the  walk.  Fortunately — no 
one !  They  turned  in  through  the  gate  of  Hillcrest 
and  neared  the  door. 

"Don't  let  this  be  the  end  of  things  between  us!" 
he  pleaded.  "It  has  grown  too  strong  to  break." 

"I'm  utterly  at  sea,"  said  Marion. 


X 

SHE  would  have  liked  nothing  so  much  as  to  slip 
upstairs  to  her  lair,  there  to  get  her  balance  and 
find  out  a  little  where  she  stood :  but  her  mother 
heard  her  come  in,  and  hastened  to  see  if  it  was  she. 

"Hello,  Mother!"  said  the  girl  with  rather  arti 
ficial  cheerfulness.  "Did  you  think  I  was  drowned?" 

"I  knew  you  were  not,"  said  Mrs.  Moulton  in  her 
tone  of  occult  knowledge.  "But  I  did  not  know  why 
you  had  slipped  off  as  you  did  to  spend  the  day  with 
one  of  the  men-servants." 

Mr.  Moulton  came  into  the  reception-hall,  and 
looked  searchingly  at  his  daughter. 

"You  word  it  very  badly,"  said  the  girl  to  her 
mother.  "Good  evening,  Papa.  I  hope  you  have 
not  been  worrying  about  me.  It  wasn't  necessary." 

"I  differ  with  you,"  he  said. 

"There's  a  searching  party  down  the  river  looking 
for  you  now,"  said  Mrs.  Moulton. 

"Such  a  fuss!"  exclaimed  Marion  in  scornful  resig 
nation. 

"Where  were  you  during  the  storm?"  asked  Mr. 
Moulton. 

"In  front  of  a  fire  getting  dry.  We  had  an  ac 
cident  with  the  launch,  and  had  to  walk  home.  I 


THE    CHASM  113 

would  like  to  get  these  muddy  boots  off  if  you'd  just 
as  soon." 

"Just  a  moment,  please,"  said  Mr.  Moulton. 
"Have  you  any  objection  to  telling  where  this  fire 
was?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  the  slightest  objection  to  telling 
everything  that  happened  to-day — were  it  not  for 
the  tone  you  and  mama  have  adopted.  You  seem 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  I  am  guilty  of  something. 
If  you  wish  to  make  a  criminal  court  out  of  this,  go 
ahead,  and  I'll  act  accordingly."  She  took  off  her 
hat  and  gloves — frank  battle  preparations.  "I  real 
ly  ought  to  have  a  lawyer  to  take  advantage  of  tech 
nical  points,"  she  said  scathingly.  "I  believe,  first 
of  all,  I  have  a  right  to  know  the  exact  crime  for 
which  I  am  to  be  tried." 

"There's  considerable  bluff  to  that,  Marion,"  said 
Mr.  Moulton.  "You  spent  the  day  alone  with  Brad- 
field  the  gardener — you  have  avoided  saying  just 
where."  He  paused  a  moment.  "What  are  you  up 
to?" 

"I  am  not  'up  to'  anything.  I  went  launch-riding 
with  Mr.  Bradfield  because  I  like  him."  She  waited 
a  moment.  "Is  that  sufficient?" 

"Hardly." 

"It  should  be." 

"Why  did  you  say  nothing  to  your  mother  about 
Mister  Bradfield?" 

"The  subject  did  not  happen  to  come  up.  I  told 
Mrs.  Pearson  all  about  it.  She  was  going  with  us 
to-day,  and  hurt  her  knee  at  the  last  minute.  It's 
absurd  to  think  of  Bradfield  as  a  servant.  He  is  a 


114,  THE    CHASM 

thinker  and  writer.  I  have  read  one  of  his  books. 
He  is  much  the  most  interesting  man  in  Moline." 

"How  did  you  come  to  discover  all  this?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Moulton. 

"I  began  talking  with  him  about  the  Japanese 
lilies  in  the  conservatory." 

"Well,  that  part  of  it  sounds  all  right,"  said  Mr. 
Moulton,  relieved  of  his  darkest  suspicions.  "But 
Marion,  you  must  be  more  careful  of  appearances. 
The  thing  looks  bad.  Don't  do  it,  my  girl,  don't  do 
this  sort  of  thing." 

"If  the  thing  had  happened  with  George  Pearson, 
not  a  word  would  be  said  about  it.  Why  then  when 
it  is  Walt  Bradfield — a  man  more  intelligent  and 
worth  while?" 

"Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Moulton.  "Eldridge  the 
driver  knows  you  went  with  this  man  who  in  his  eyes 
certainly  is  simply  a  fellow  servant  of  his,  and  he  is 
all  ready  to  start  some  talk  that  will  make  your  hair 
stand  on  end.  If  this  Bradfield  doesn't  show  a 
damned  sight  more  decency  and  good  sense  than  he's 
at  all  likely  to  in  answering  Eldridge's  questions, 
there'll  be  a  scandal  over  this  affair.  You  must  not 
let  it  go  any  farther.  You've  got  to  drop  Bradfield !" 

"I  shan't  do  it!"  blazed  Marion,  and  then  she 
thought  it  better  to  be  a  little  more  conciliating.  "It 
isn't  necessary,  Papa.  Mr.  Bradfield  may  be  relied 
on  for  both  decency  and  good  sense." 

An  automobile  came  up  and  stopped  outside  the 
door,  but  they  were  too  absorbed  to  notice  it. 

"You  seem  to  be  completely  under  the  man's  in 
fluence!"  exclaimed  Moulton.  "I'd  like  to  know 
how  you  reconcile  your  apparently  limitless  admira- 


THE     CHASM  115 

tion  for  this  gardener  with  your  interest  in  the 
Count  de  Hohenfels." 

She  had  not  herself  reconciled  those  two  things. 
If  she  had  only  had  time  to  think  things  out — to 
find  just  how  far  reconciliation  was  possible  !  "That 
is  a  matter  that  must  be  decided  by  my  own  con 
science,"  was  all  she  could  find  to  say. 

Mr.  Moulton  was  really  astonished.  He  had  ex 
pected  an  indignant  disclaimer  of  anything  more  than 
friendship  for  Bradfield. 

"Is  the  trial  over?"  said  Marion  patiently. 

"I  sometimes  think  you  love  rebellion  for  its  own 
sake!"  said  he  bitterly. 

"Do  you  ever  love  authority  for  its  own  sake?" 
she  asked,  thinking  of  his  rigid  adherence  to  the  time 
he  had  set  for  further  discussion  of  the  letter  to 
De  Hohenfels. 

The  doorbell  rang.  A  servant  turned  on  the  porch 
light,  and  through  the  plate-glass  of  the  door  Mr. 
Moulton  saw  a  clean-cut  gentleman  with  dark,  close 
ly  trimmed  beard  taking  out  a  card-case,  the  move 
ment  displaying  white  waistcoat  and  sable-lined  over 
coat. 

There  was  an  exclamation  of  astonishment  from 
Mrs.  Moulton.  Marion  turned,  but  the  caller  had 
stepped  back  so  as  not  to  see  what  was  going  on  in 
side. 

"De  Hohenfels!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Moulton. 
"Marion,  it's  De  Hohenfels!" 

"De  Hohenfels?"  echoed  Mr.  Moulton.  He 
looked  at  Marion. 

She  stood  there  dazed  and  speechless. 


XI 

JUST  look  at  you!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Moulton, 
almost  as  upset  as  Marion  by  De  Hohenfels's 
unexpected  arrival.  "You  can't  let  him  see 
you  like  that!" 

"Mother,  are  you  sure  it's  Fedya?  Did  he  see 
you?  Where  is  that  footman?  Oh,  please  let  me 
get  away,  and  open  the  door  yourself!"  She  fled  up 
stairs.  "Why  didn't  he  telephone?"  she  thought. 
"When  did  he  get  here?  What  will  papa  say  to 
him?  Oh,  dear,  I  must  dress!  Where  is  Mathilde?" 

Suppressing  misgivings  as  to  propriety,  Mrs. 
Moulton  did  open  the  door  herself.  The  Count 
de  Hohenfels  thanked  her  for  her  kind  informality, 
but  became  formal  himself  on  the  presentation  of 
Mr.  Moulton,  who  briefly  acknowledged  the  intro 
duction.  The  footman,  arriving  to  open  the  door, 
deferentially  relieved  the  visitor  of  his  stick,  hat, 
and  the  beautiful  warm  coat,  to  get  the  fur  for  which 
nomad  hunters  on  snow-shoes  had  lain  for  days  half- 
frozen  by  the  holes  of  the  sables  on  Siberian  steppes. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  said  Mrs.  Moulton,  turn 
ing  a  key  that  lighted  up  the  nearest  reception  room. 
"Marion  has  just  gone  to  dress;  I'm  afraid  she'll 
keep  you  waiting  awhile.  Why  didn't  you  let  us 
know  you  were  coming?" 

116 


THE     CHASM  117 

"Things  were  a  little  vague,"  replied  De  Hohen- 
fels,  whose  thoughts  were  then  vigorously  centered 
on  Marion's  father.  Starting  to  follow  his  hostess, 
he  glanced  back  to  see  if  her  husband  were  coming 
too.  Mr.  Moulton  showing  no  such  intention,  De 
Hohenfels  stopped  and  faced  him.  Having  come 
to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den,  the  sight  of  the  lion 
impelled  him  to  immediate  bearding.  "Do  not  care 
to  purchase  European  title  for  my  daughter"  was 
rankling. 

"Allow  me  to  acknowledge  your  cablegram,"  he 
said,  speaking  with  the  precision  of  an  ambassador. 
"I  decided  to  answer  it  in  person.  I  wish  to  explain 
first  that  my  family  makes  its  daughters  independent 
of  their  husbands  at  marriage  in  order  that  the  sor 
did  bond  of  money-asking  and  money-giving  may 
play  no  part  in  their  wedded  lives.  Should  you  be 
unable  or  unwilling  to  do  this  for  your  daughter,  I 
am  neither.  If  Miss  Moulton  does  me  the  honor 
to  accept  my  offer  of  marriage,  I  shall  be  happy  to 
endow  her  in  her  own  right  with  the  half  of  my 
estate — which  is  not  exactly  the  smallest  in  Russia." 

"Very  noble  of  you,"  said  Moulton,  wishing  to 
throw  the  gentleman  off  the  track  of  his  apparently 
premeditated  speech. 

"Not  at  all.  The  satisfaction  of  making  this  an 
swer  to  your  polite  communication  is  in  itself  worth 
half  of  any  man's  estate." 

"Especially  when  the  said  half-estate,  magnani 
mously  deeded  out  of  the  family  one  day,  comes 
back  by  marriage  the  next !  I  believe,  also,  that  in 
Europe  a  man  is  the  guardian  of  his  wife's  estate 
and  the  administrator  of  her  property." 


118  THE     CHASM 

"Not  in  Russia.  There  exists  there  the  absolute 
independence  of  a  married  woman  with  regard  to 
her  property.  But  you  miss  the  point.  My  proposal 
effectually  destroys  the  accusation  of  your  cablegram 
— that  the  title  of  De  Hohenfels  is  for  sale." 

"Your  proposal  may  also  be  regarded  as  a  grandt 
stand  play  of  half  the  De  Hohenfels  estate  now  for 
all  of  the  Moulton  estate  later." 

"Mr.  Moulton,  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  anything 
you  like  with  your  estate  except  accuse  me  of  im 
proper  motives  in  regard  to  it.  Men  accustomed  to 
wealth  take  it  for  granted.  With  me  it  is  a  means, 
not  an  end.  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  throw  away 
a  forest  and  never  see  it  again  for  the  sake  of — let 
us  say  a  felicitous  revenge.  You  apparently  are 
ready  to  spoil  your  own  life  and  your  daughter's — 
for  fear  somebody  other  than  yourself  will  enjoy  the 
use  of  your  money  after  you  are  dead." 

"I  am  a  creator  of  wealth,  young  man;  and,  by 
your  account,  you  are  a  spender  of  it.  That  may 
account  for  certain  differences  in  our  points  of  view." 

"My  peasants  and  my  land  create  my  wealth. 
Your  factories  and  your  workmen  create  yours.  Not 
so  vast  a  difference,  I  think.  We  had  better  not  go 
into  the  subject  of  political  economy,  however,  since 
Mrs.  Moulton  has  been  kind  enough  to  suggest  that 
I  follow  her.  At  my  hotel  I  have  documents  neces 
sary  to  make  the  transfer  of  property  I  mentioned." 
Suppressing  a  gleam  of  malicious  satisfaction,  which 
showed  his  feeling  that  he  had  the  best  of  it,  De 
Hohenfels  bowed  and  followed  Mrs.  Moulton  into 
the  reception  room. 


THE    CHASM  119 

"Clever!"  was  Moulton's  verdict  as  he  turned 
toward  his  study.  He  began  to  wonder  if  the  man 
could  be  interested  in  the  administration  of  industry, 
and  whether  he  would  live  in  America.  Considering 
the  Bradfield  affair,  perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  the 
foreigner  had  arrived.  And  still,  Mr.  Moulton 
thought  it  worth  while  to  consider  whether  there 
was  any  way  of  playing  De  Hohenfels  and  Bradfield 
against  each  other  for  the  elimination  of  both  and 
the  advantage  of  George  Pearson. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  coming  of  De  Hohenfels 
to  Hillcrest,  there  sounded  through  its  spacious 
rooms,  with  their  hard-wood  floors  and  lofty  ceilings, 
the  opening  of  Chopin's  Nocturne  in  G  Major.  De 
Hohenfels  was  playing  for  Mrs.  Moulton,  though 
she  was  wont  to  express  disdain  of  "intellectual  musi 
cians  who  spoil  the  soul-impression  by  analysis." 
Since  he  nevertheless  played  with  all  the  intelligence, 
as  well  as  with  all  the  power  and  taste,  which  he 
possessed,  it  may  be  surmised  that  there  in  the  Hill- 
crest  music  room  Count  Feodor  was  not  playing  sole 
ly  for  Mrs.  Moulton. 

The  first  phrase  of  the  famous  Nocturne,  rising 
and  repeated  in  the  tonic,  he  rendered  like  a  ques 
tion — the  descending  answer  faltering  a  little  to  a 
tentative  solution  in  the  subdominant  minor.  Re- 
arising  there,  the  question  was  answered  in  the  tonic; 
but  there  the  eager  fairies,  knowing  another  answer, 
seized  the  theme,  swept  it  through  flitting  chords  of 
C  and  F,  B  flat  and  E  flat  to  D  flat,  transmuted  it 
to  esoteric  E  flat  minor,  filled  it  with  dew  and  moon 
beams  on  the  borderland  of  flats  and  sharps,  brought 


120  THE    CHASM 

it  back  as  far  as  F,  then  gave  it  to  A  minor  and  the 
gods. 

The  Olympians  said  it  in  their  language  and  sent 
it  back  through  a  thunder  of  warring  sevenths  to  E 
minor  and  friendly  C  major.  There  a  new  move 
ment  rocked  like  a  boating  song  in  big  slow  waves. 
The  yearning  question  and  answer  broke  out  again, 
developed  as  before  as  far  as  E  flat  minor,  but  this 
time,  avoiding  the  Olympian  confusion  on  the  border 
land  of  sharps  and-flats,  the  melody  sailed  smoothly 
on  around  the  circle  of  the  keys,  working  through  the 
antipodal  key,  there  solving  the  mystery  of  the  iden 
tity  of  G  flat  and  F  sharp  which  binds  the  two  hemi 
spheres  of  the  keys  into  a  sphere,  and  finally,  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world  of  music,  it  emerged 
Magellan-like  in  the  vassal  chords  of  G  and  the 
harbor  song. 

After  enchanted  minors  the  common  chords  came 
as  the  richest  change  of  all,  as  man,  enriched  by 
creative  experience,  at  last  emerges  into  understand 
ing  of  his  own  real  and  earth-born  soul — to  find  it 
more  wondrous  than  all  his  mythic  gods  and  heavens. 

The  recurring  question  and  response  hinted  of 
final  answer,  the  music  moved  toward  some  climax 
not  to  be  divined.  Gathering  energy  and  meaning,  it 
swept  through  B  flat,  E  flat,  across  F  sharp,  and 
moved  with  deepening  bass  through  clear  and  lumi 
nous  chords  of  B  and  E  and  A,  dropping  a  sharp  at 
every  beat,  and  then  there  came,  in  lieu  of  the  ex 
pected  D,  a  chord  of  stars,  the  Pleiades,  a  B  flat,  E 
and  G,  and  far  below,  a  mystery  and  a  thunder 
called  C  sharp. 


THE     CHASM 

The  distant  phrases  intensified  Marion's  feeling  of 
the  importance  of  life.  That  pattern  of  beautiful 
sound  which  sadness  had  woven  in  the  soul  of  Chopin 
made  more  poignant  her  sense  of  crisis  and  unpre- 
paredness.  She  was  afraid  of  Feodor — not  only  of 
his  judgment  of  this  day  of  hers  with  Walt,  but 
habitually — lest  she  should  fail  to  satisfy  his  instinct 
and  intelligence  of  beauty.  Manners,  language, 
ideas,  dress,  all  things  expressing  personality,  were 
subject  of  his  art-criticism,  and  she  felt  that  the  prize 
of  his  approval  was  a  great  one. 

With  Walt  she  had  begun  to  accept  her  whole 
nature,  as  he  accepted  his,  allowing  it  spontaneous 
play;  with  the  return  of  Feodor,  she  tried  to  regain 
her  old  attitude  of  selecting,  rejecting,  developing 
favored  impulses. 

She  came  down  to  the  room  where  he  was  playing, 
white  irises  chained  to  her  corsage  in  a  flower-clasp 
of  Roman  gold,  her  red-gold  hair  done  high  in  a 
Russian  coiffure,  the  kakoshnik,  with  which  she  had 
once  delighted  his  soul  in  Rome. 

Mrs.  Moulton  saw  in  the  girl's  eyes  a  troubled 
look  that  made  her  hope  she  was  regretting  her  af 
fair  with  Bradfield.  There  was  imperfectly  con 
cealed  constraint  in  her  greeting  to  De  Hohenfels. 
Mrs.  Moulton  left  them,  and  went  to  tell  her  hus 
band  he  had  better  drop  his  opposition  to  the  for 
eigner.  Her  chief  objection  to  Count  Feodor,  un 
acknowledged  even  to  herself,  had  been  that  if  she 
would  only  wait  a  few  years  Dave  Moulton's  daugh 
ter  could  probably  aspire  higher.  It  would  be  very 
fine  to  feel  spiritually  superior  to  the  mere  title  of 


THE     CHASM 

a  son-in-law  who  was  a  duke.  But  if  it  was  to  be 
Count  Feodor  or — a  gardener ! 

Count  Feeder's  attention  was  on  Marion  as  pic 
ture.  "It  is  impossible  to  retain  a  mental  image 
equal  to  you,"  he  said. 

"I  can't  believe  it's  you,"  she  said.  "Here  it 
seems  unreal.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you 
were  coming?"  • 

"Didn't  you  know  I  would  have  to  come  after 
you?"  He  folded  her  hands  in  his,  close  to  his 
breast,  and  drew  her  toward  him.  She  stepped  back 
hastily,  and  flushed  as  she  realized  the  idea  that 
made  her  do  it.  He  accounted  for  it  superficially. 
She  realized  then  how  it  would  wound  him  if  he 
ever  knew.  She  had  shrunk  from  him  because  the 
kiss  of  another  man  was  on  her  lips. 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  "do  you  still  love  me?" 

She  hesitated. 

"You  do  not!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  never  doubted 
that  till  now.  I  thought  of  every  other  reason  why 
you  left  Rome." 

"Oh,  I  do.    I  do  love  you.    But " 

She  found  herself  unable  to  tell  him  of  Walt. 
Mentally  she  made  the  excuse  that  she  must  wait 
till  she  herself  understood  how  such  contradictory 
emotions  could  exist  together  in  her.  "The  humilia 
tion  of  that  cablegram,"  said  she  lamely — uncom 
fortable  with  the  consciousness  of  her  evasion. 

"How  can  you  be  so  illogical?  I  thought  by  next 
morning  you  would  realize  you  were  not  responsible 
for  the  acts  of  your  father.  The  next  morning  you 
were  gone — without  a  word,  without  a  line!  Not  a 


THE     CHASM  123 

line  from  Genoa,  not  a  line  from  Gibraltar!  I  had 
to  take  your  majordomo's  word  for  it  that  you  had 
gone  to  America.  I  wasn't  certain  till  to-night  that 
you  would  be  here  in  Moline." 

"I  felt  then  that  I  couldn't  face  you  again  until 
you  had  been  atoned  to  in  some  way.  I  came  home 
to  make  my  father  apologize  to  you." 

"Make  him  apologize!"  he  protested.  "That 
would  be  a  superficial,  an  empty,  atonement.  I  have 
already  done  better  than  that." 

"What?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Forced  him  to  see  that  he  was  wrong." 

"You  did!"  she  cried,  exulting.  "How  did  you 
doit?" 

He  told  her  of  the  proposal  he  had  made  to  Mr. 
Moulton. 

"You — endow — me!  Oh,  what  a  shame!"  She 
turned  away  from  him,  sank  into  a  chair,  and  stared 
before  her.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "You  have  your  re 
venge.  But  it  isn't  fair!  It  isn't  fair  to  you.  You 
had  your  sister  Vanya's  dot  to  pay.  And  it  isn't  fair 
to  me.  No;  that's  impossible,  Feodor.  We  may  be 
barbarians  in  some  ways,  but  we're  hardly  so  low  as 
marriage  by  purchase." 

"You're  confused.  The  price  of  a  purchased 
bride  goes  not  to  her  but  to  her  family." 

"Well!"  she  blazed.  "If  the  price  goes  to  the 
woman  herself — what  do  you  call  that?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "American  marriage.'1 

She  knitted  her  brows — trying  to  see  in  that  any 
thing  more  than  a  mot  of  his. 

"Surely,"   said  he,   "it  is  better  that   a   woman 


THE     CHASM 

should  be  made  independent  by  her  husband  once  and 
for  all  and  in  her  own  right  than  to  have  it  doled  out 
to  her  in  the  form  of  support." 

"How  terribly  financial  a  thing  marriage  is!"  ex 
claimed  Marion.  "Americans  like  my  father  think 
the  dot  makes  marriage  mercenary.  Europeans  like 
you  think  a  dotless  marriage  mercenary.  And  what 
I  never  saw  until  this  moment  is — that  both  of  you 
are  right!" 

"Do  you  think  me  mercenary?"  he  asked  irritably. 

"No.  I  know  you  are  not.  You  have  had  too 
many  things  in  your  life  more  interesting  than  the 
pursuit  of  money." 

"Are  you  mercenary?" 

"No.  I  haven't  had  to  be.  I've  taken  wealth  for 
granted." 

"Exactly.    Just  as  you  should  do." 

"But  our  being  unmercenary  makes  my  point  the 
stronger.  We  desire  to  marry,  and  unmercenary 
though  we  are,  complication  after  complication 
arises  about  money;  and  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any 
possible  arrangement  that  isn't  degrading  or  unfair 
to  someone." 

"What  has  started  you  along  this  line?  It  is 
necessary  to  settle  matters  at  the  beginning — that's 
all.  After  that,  the  question  of  money  will  cause  us 
no  more  trouble  than  it  always  has." 

She  could  not  help  looking  through  Walt's  eyes 
at  the  idea  that  they  should  have  wealth  without 
trouble  or  thought  or  any  service  to  the  society  which 
gave  them  luxury  and  culture.  She  remembered 
Bradfield's  "you  have  accepted  the  profits  as  unthink 
ingly  as  you  accept  the  philosophy  that  justifies 


THE     CHASM  125 

them."  She  thought  of  a  certain  vast,  one-story,  old 
brick  building  in  Moline  where,  from  dawn  till  dusk 
in  Rembrandtesque  gloom,  lit  by  the  weird,  red  lights 
of  forges,  men  with  black,  sweat-streaked  faces  and 
uncanny  forearms  held  and  hammered  red  plow 
shares  on  the  ringing  anvils.  Money  was  a  thing 
they  had  to  think  about — and  give  their  whole  lives 
for!  "Do  your  peasants  plow  with  wooden  plows, 
Feodor?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"Hardly.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  thought  probably  my  father  was  speaking  meta 
phorically." 

"Oh,  has  he  been  investigating  my  estates?" 

"I  think  not." 

"It  is  hard  to  get  them  to  use  American  labor-sav 
ing  machinery." 

"Why?" 

"They  are  slaves  of  tradition." 

"Why  do  they  say  they  don't  want  to  use  it?" 

"They?     Oh,  various  pretexts." 

"For  instance?" 

"That  it  robs  too  many  of  work.  That  they  have 
to  have  larger  holdings  of  land  first.  So  they  dream 
of  nationalizing  the  land — after  overthrowing  the 
monarchy." 

"That  is  not  being  slaves  of  tradition." 

"Well — no,  the  social  revolutionists  are  not.  They 
would  make  muzhiks  of  us  all.  But  where  have  you 
acquired  such  an  interest  in  this?" 

"I  was  thinking  how  easily  wealth  comes  to  some, 
how  hard  to  others.  Tell  me,  if  you  were  a  muzhik, 
would  you  not  work  for  nationalization  of  the  land  ?" 

"What  I'd  do  if  a  muzhik  is  too  unimportant  for 


126  THE     CHASM 

discussion.  Being  what  I  am,  I  shall  do  everything 
in  my  power  to  prevent  the  annihilation  of  present 
Russian  society.  It's  bad  enough  in  some  ways,  but 
as  a  whole  it  is  on  the  highest  level  of  individual 
culture  in  Europe.  Old  culture — that  of  the  west — 
in  a  new  soul — that  of  the  upper-class  Russian,  not 
too  remote  from  barbaric  vigor — there,  perhaps,  lies 
the  highest  possibility  for  human  development.  The 
muzhik  to  cultivate  the  soil,  and  we — ourselves.  But 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  my  dear  Marion,  I  really 
can't  get  my  mind  on  those  impersonal  subjects.  I 
am  disturbed  by  your  unwillingness  to  back  me  up 
in  the  position  I  have  taken  with  Mr.  Moulton.  Un 
less  we  carry  things  through  on  the  basis  I  have  pro 
posed,  he  will  take  advantage  of  the  failure  to  im 
pute  insincerity  to  me.  If  you  are  so  anxious  that 
atonement  be  made  to  me,  don't  you  see  that  this  is 
the  one  way  that  really  does  atone?  Don't  you  see 
how  strong  this  makes  your  position  with  him?  Go 
and  tell  him  you  and  I  are  going  to  marry  next 
week." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  exclaimed,  startled  by  the  vividness 
of  the  idea. 

"Two  weeks,  then.  Three.  The  point  is — say 
nothing  more  about  settlement,  dower,  or  anything 
of  the  kind.  Ignore  the  subject.  If  he  broaches  it, 
tell  him  it's  quite  immaterial." 

"That  would  be  delicious!"  Her  eyes  were 
radiant. 

"Good!    Do  it  now!" 

"Oh,  Feodor!"  She  sank  back  despondent.  "It's 
as  though  you  were  marrying  a  beggar  from  the 
streets  of  Rome!" 


THE     CHASM  12T 

"Nonsense !  Suppose  I  were  an  American. 
There'd  be  no  question  of  dower.  I  am  able  to  take 
care  of  you.  If  you  love  me  you  should  be  willing 
to  give  me  the  happiness  of  doing  it — to  say  noth 
ing  of  the  fiendish  satisfaction  it  will  give  me  to  spike, 
the  guns  of  your  skeptical  pater.  Run  along  and 
tell  him,  and  come  back  to  me.  Or  shall  we  go  hand 
in  hand  and  say,  'Bless  us,  our  father!' ' 

It  was  alluring.  It  was  easier  to  do  it  than  not. 
She  was  trembling  on  the  verge  of  consent.  The 
thought  of  the  cabin  and  the  launch,  the  bridge,  the 
concrete  walk,  came  over  her  like  a  pang.  To  forget 
all  that  before  the  day  was  done  1  It  would  be  dese 
cration.  She  shook  her  head.  "Not  today,  Fedya. 
I  can't  say  'yes'  to  that  today.  That  doesn't  mean 
I  will  tomorrow.  No,  there  are  some  things  I  must 
think  out." 


XII 

WHEN  Mrs.  Moulton  came  in  after  confer 
ence  with  her  husband  and  asked  Count 
Feodor  to  stay  at  Hillcrest  while  he  was  in 
Moline,  the  European,  betraying  no  surprise,  and 
welcoming  the  indication  of  a  favorable  impression 
produced  on  Mr.  Moulton,  accepted  the  invitation. 
He  came  up  next  morning  in  a  motor-car  with  his 
English  valet,  who  unpacked  the  trunks  in  a  suite 
more  luxurious  than  Hohenfels  had  known  in  the 
manor-houses  of  Russia.  From  his  windows  the 
foreign  visitor  looked  across  to  the  heights  of  sub 
urban  Davenport;  and  in  the  valley  saw  the  river, 
wide  as  the  Volga  at  Samara,  flowing  around  the 
nobly  wooded  government  island.  There  the  arsenal 
alined  its  giant  yellow  stone  gables  beneath  the 
towering  flag-staff  flying  the  flag  with  aristocratic 
blue  field,  its  patrician  white  striped  with  a  color 
Hohenfels  would  have  omitted,  symbolic  of  one 
blood  in  the  veins  of  all  men — loved  by  slaves  and 
serfs  and  democrats  from  the  days  of  the  labor 
unions  of  imperial  Rome. 

In  the  expanse  of  woods  and  water  and  citied  hills 
the  ugliest  and  most  interesting  area  was  the  long 
crescent  of  massive  brick  factory  buildings  which 

128 


THE    CHASM  129 

lined  the  Moline  water  front.  Among  groups  of 
cylindrical  sheet-iron  smoke-stacks  and  tall  brick 
chimneys  with  soot-blackened  tops,  the  names  of  plow 
and  wagon  and  implement  and  carriage  companies 
stood  above  the  horizontal  roof-lines  in  black  or 
gilded  metal  letters  twice  the  height  of  a  man. 

After  luncheon  with  Marion  and  Mrs.  Moulton, 
Count  Feodor  went  with  them  in  their  car  to  the 
golf-links  and  met  a  number  of  society  people  at  the 
club-house  on  the  island. 

When  Mr.  Moulton,  who  had  lunched  at  the 
Manufacturers'  with  some  eastern  business  men, 
drove  home  late  in  the  afternoon,  he  saw  the  Pearson 
car  near  the  door  and  met  Mrs.  Pearson  coming  out. 

"Not  a  soul  homel"  said  she,  after  Mr.  Moulton 
had  returned  her  greeting.  "I  came  to  carry  Marion 
off  to  dinner." 

"Come  in,  won't  you?"  said  Moulton.  "Marion 
may  not  go  to  dinner  with  you  but  she  will  be  anxious 
to  have  you  meet  her  latest  acquisition." 

"Yes,  she  asked  me  to  come  over  and  talk  with 
him,"  said  Lady  Diotima,  turning  back  with  Moul 
ton  to  the  house  and  concluding  that  Marion  must 
have  confided  in  her  father  as  to  Bradfield. 

"The  gentleman  arrived  last  night,"  said  Moul 
ton.  "I  believe  my  wife  has  already  domesticated 
him." 

"Last  night!"  echoed  Mrs.  Pearson.  "Why  whom 
do  you  mean?" 

"Feodor,  Count  de  Hohenfels,"  said  Moulton 
with  a  grimace. 

"You  don't  mean  it!  Hm!  So  he  came.  Did 
you  talk  with  him?" 


130  THE     CHASM 

"A  little.  By  the  way:  whom  did  you  think  I 
meant  by  Marion's  latest?" 

"Oh,  a  Mr.  Bradfield,"  said  Lady  Diotima,  as 
though  the  subject  were  not  worth  pursuing. 

"I  learned  of  that  yesterday,"  said  he.  "What 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

"She  has  probably  formed  an  exaggerated  idea 
of  his  talent,  judgment,  and  so  on,  simply  because  in 
that  kind  of  man  one  expects  nothing  at  all." 

"Sound!"  exclaimed  Moulton.  He  offered  her  a 
chair.  "Tell  me,"  he  began,  seating  himself  near 
her.  "I've  a  hazy  kind  of  notion.  Is  there  any  pos 
sibility  of  getting  these  two — acquisitions — to  elimi 
nate  each  other?" 

"Like  the  two  snakes  that  began  at  each  other's 
tails  and  swallowed  till  they  both  vanished?"  She 
laughed. 

"The  analogy  would  discredit  the  idea,"  he  said, 
refusing  to  think  the  snakes  amusing.  "But  serious 
ly:  women  have  a  talent  for  such  things.  Marion 
has  already  confided  in  you.  Her  mother  and  I 
found  out  about  Bradfield  only  by  accident.  I  wish 
you  would  feel  your  way  in  the  matter." 

"I  don't  want  Marion  to  cast  me  in  the  role  of 
designing  mama,"  observed  Lady  Diotima.  "If  I 
am  to  lose  her  as  a  daughter-in-law,  I  don't  care  to 
lose  her  as  a  friend  too.  Whatever  influence  I  have 
with  her  is  as  a  chum.  However:  ask  her  to  bring 
Count  de  Hohenfels  to  dinner  to-night.  In  any  case 
I  wish  to  meet  him,  and  George  is  in  Minneapolis." 

Lady  Diotima's  scientific  observations  at  her  din 
ner-table  that  evening  led  her  to  believe  that  Count 
Feodor  had  Marion.  She  herself  liked  him.  In 


THE    CHASM  131 

the  conversation  there  was  a  sprinkling  of  smart 
epigrams,  a  light  tone  of  graceful  false  sentiment 
that  made  no  pretense  of  being  genuine,  and  not  too 
great  earnestness  about  anything — a  kind  of  talk 
Mrs.  Pearson  pined  for  and  seldom  attained.  The 
guest  followed  her  lead  happily.  His  easy  dignity, 
his  not  quite  blase  air,  his  assured  tone  of  man  of 
the  world,  were  qualities  whose  absence  in  Bradfield, 
as  Marion  recognized,  would  have  meant  a  con 
strained  party  had  he  been  in  the  Russian  gentle 
man's  place. 

While  Hohenfels  and  Mr.  Pearson,  over  their 
cigars,  were  discussing  certain  grand-ducal  timber 
speculations  as  the  real  cause  of  the  Russo-Japanese 
war,  Lady  Diotima,  alone  with  Marion  upstairs,  in 
nocently  inquired  if  the  Count  had  met  her  friend 
Mr.  Bradfield. 

"No,"  said  Marion,  non-committally.  The  ques 
tion  being  not  unexpected,  she  betrayed  nothing  of 
her  state  of  soul. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  arrange  a  meeting?"  asked 
Mrs.  Pearson  smiling. 

"Goodness!"  said  the  girl.  "Your  question  sug 
gests  the  duello." 

"Do  you  suppose  your  philosopher  will  take  it 
philosophically?" 

This  pierced  Marion's  armor.  "Don't  joke  about 
it!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Dear  me!     I  didn't  suppose  it  was  serious." 

"I  lay  awake  half  the  night  thinking  about  it." 

"I  don't  see  why  Mr.  Bradfield's  disappointment 
should  bother  you  so  much.  You  seem  quite  uncon 
cerned  about  George." 


132  THE    CHASM 

"I  am  not  worrying  about  Mr.  Bradfield's  feel 
ings.  He  is  capable  of  taking  care  of  them  himself. 
It's  my  own." 

"Is  it  possible?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  like  him 
better  than  your  Russian?" 

"You  can  call  me  as  weak  and  worthless  as  you 
like,  but  I  don't  know.  I  begin  to  think  myself  in 
capable  of  real  love.  I  thought  I  loved  Fedya — I 
think  so  yet.  Yes,  it  must  be  that  I  do.  And  yet, 
if  I  do — how  can  it  be  that  this  other  man  attracts  me 
so?" 

"Has  the  other  man  made  love  to  you?" 

Marion  looked  at  her  reproachfully  for  asking, 
but  Lady  Diotima  was  unabashed. 

"An  enterprising  person,"  she  observed. 

Marion  rose  to  go  downstairs.  "Perhaps  I  was 
the  enterprising  one.  I  don't  know.  My  likes  and 
dislikes  have  always  been  positive.  I  imagined  I 
understood  myself.  Evidently  I  do  not.  It's  a 
wretched  condition  to  be  in." 

"Have  you  seen  Bradfield  since  the  Count's  ar 
rival?" 

"No,  I  don't  know  what  to  tell  him." 

"See  him,  and  probably  things  will  clear  up.  Only 
for  heaven's  sake  don't  marry  him.  Even  if  you 
cared  for  them  both  equally  as  individuals — though 
I  can't  believe  you  do — you  ought  not  to  hesitate 
when  life  with  one  leads  into  the  central  current — to 
world  capitals — St.  Petersburg,  Rome — and  life  with 
the  other  leads — nowhere.  But  you  don't  have  to 
marry  either  of  them." 

"No,"  said  Marion.  "I  don't  have  to  marry  at 
all.  But  I  think  I  shall." 


THE    CHASM  133 

"Does  that  mean  one  of  these  two?" 

"I  do  know  that  these  two  are  different  to  me  from 
other  men — the  kind  of  difference  a  girl  expects  to 
find — and  is  expected  to  find — in  only  one." 

As  they  came  down  and  Marion  caught  sight  of 
Fedya,  immaculate,  at  ease,  as  he  sat  talking  in  the 
library,  the  idea  of  really  marrying  anyone  else  was 
suddenly  painful  to  her.  They  left  early;  and  as  they 
rode  homeward  in  the  seat  behind  the  driver,  Count 
Feodor,  had  he  known  how  she  then  felt,  would  have 
prospered. 

On  the  corner  of  Sixteenth  Street  and  Third  Ave 
nue  their  attention  was  attracted  by  a  crowd  of  work- 
ingmen.  A  man  standing  above  the  crowd  in  the 
light  of  a  gasoline  torch  was  speaking. 

"A  political  meeting?"  asked  De  Hohenfels. 
"Would  you  mind  stopping?" 

The  driver  stopped  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  A 
score  of  men  turned  to  see  what  the  "buzz-wagon" 
was  doing  there.  Occupants  of  automobiles  were 
not  usually  interested  in  such  meetings.  The  speaker 
turned  to  look  at  them,  and  Marion  repressed  an  ex 
clamation  of  astonishment.  It  was  Walt  Bradfield. 

When  he  recognized  Marion  in  her  lace  automo 
bile  veil  and  saw  the  man  in  evening  dress  beside  her, 
he  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse.  He  turned  away 
quickly,  groped  for  his  connections,  found  them,  but 
spoke  uncertainly.  "Life  is  too  easy,"  he  said,  "for 
those  who  now  own  the  sources  of  wealth — that  is, 
the  sources  of  life." 

Half  a  dozen  men  looked  toward  the  richly 
dressed  occupants  of  the  motor  car. 

"A  socialist?"  queried  De  Hohenfels. 


134 

"Hand  those  plutocrats  something,  Walt,"  said 
one  of  the  speaker's  comrades. 

"Labor  bought  with  wealth  produces  more 
wealth,"  continued  Bradfield.  "The  possessors  of 
labor-buying  wealth  call  the  golden  stream  which 
our  bought  labor  pours  into  their  laps  the  'reward 
of  brains' !  Wake  up,  you  workingmen !  That  gold 
en  stream  is  the  reward  of  their  ownership  of  your 
productive  power — their  power  to  buy  your  labor  in 
a  labor  market  in  which  supply  exceeds  demand.  If 
it  is  'brains*'  that  is  being  rewarded  why  does  this 
same  ownership  enrich  imbeciles,  children,  degener 
ates? 

"The  present  fight  of  the  Illinois  manufacturers 
against  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  demands  for 
the  protection  of  laborers  at  their  work  confirms  the 
old  principle  that  no  ruling  class  can  be  convinced  by 
reasoning.  Only  the  force  of  circumstances,  the  de 
velopment  of  society,  the  awakened  intelligence  of 
the  oppressed  workers  can  drive  them  into  sense  and 
submission." 

"Does  your  father  know  he  is  to  be  driven  into 
submission  to  his  workmen?"  inquired  Count  Feodor. 

"Really  they  are  getting  too  raw !  They  have 
come  to  rely  too  implicitly  on  working-class  stupidity. 
Day  before  yesterday  the  Illinois  Legislature  voted 
on  the  Curran  bill.  If  passed,  it  would  compel  prop 
er  ventilation  of  rooms  where  girls  and  pregnant 
women  must  now  inhale  poisonous  sulphuric  and 
alkaline  gases.  It  would  compel  the  shielding  of 
machinery  to  safeguard  factory  employees  from 
avoidable  accidents.  They  keep  it  out  of  the  papers, 
but  in  this  state  women  like  your  own  mothers  have 


THE     CHASM  135 

been  mangled  by  unprotected  shafting  and  belting, 
and  the  shafting  and  belting  that  did  it  is  unprotected 
yet.  Take  a  look  through  the  window  there  in  the 
next  block  at  the  exposed  cog-wheels  in  the  black 
smith  shop  of  the  United  States  Plow  Company. 
Look  at  their  paint  shop  on  the  fourth  floor,  full  of 
fiercely  burning  materials,  crowded  with  workers, 
and — without  a  fire-escape.  The  company  cannot  af 
ford  fire-escapes.  It  is  fighting  the  Curran  bill  to 
save  the  expense  of  fire-escapes.  Money  spent  for 
fire-escapes  cannot  go  into  dividends." 

"Is  such  a  thing  possible?"  demanded  Marion  un 
der  her  breath. 

De  Hohenfels  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  Illinois  Federation  of  Labor  had  a  lobby  at 
Springfield  working  for  this  bill.  Did  you  read  in 
yesterday's  papers  what  happened?  The  legislature 
killed  it.  They  killed  it  in  slave  obedience  to  letters 
written  by  members  of  the  Illinois  Manufacturers' 
Association,  who  claimed  that  the  bill  gave  'arbitrary 
power'  to  the  state  factory  board  to  demand  the  re 
construction  of  buildings  and  readjustment  of  ma 
chinery.  What  frightful  tyranny  that  would  be ! 
What  sort  of  power  to  make  and  enforce  such  de 
mands  shall  be  exercised  by  the  state  if  not  'arbitrary 
power'?  What  is  unarbitrary  power?  The  state 
exerts  arbitrary  power  to  prevent  and  punish  other 
forms  of  murder — murders  which  do  not  happen  to 
be  profitable  to  the  manufacturers  of  Illinois.  The 
Manufacturers'  Association  of  Illinois  is  aghast  at 
the  despotic  restriction  of  the  right  of  respectable 
employers  to  increase  their  profits  by  mangling  wo 
men,  poisoning  girls,  and  burning  men!" 


136  THE     CHASM 

Bradfield  made  this  point  with  savage  earnestness. 
There  was  a  sharp,  quick  burst  of  applause  from  the 
crowd,  and  then  silence  to  hear  what  he  would  say 
next. 

"My  father  fought  that  bill,"  said  Marion  grimly. 
She  had  not  suspected  in  the  gentle  Bradfield  any 
such  fighting  power  as  now  rang  in  his  voice.  For  a 
moment  she  saw  the  whole  profit-system  and  the 
social  structure  built  upon  it  through  his  eyes. 

"Women's  sympathies  make  them  liable  to  be 
carried  away  by  this  sort  of  appeal,"  observed  De 
Hohenfels. 

"They  ought  to  be  carried  away!  They  ought  to 
make  men  stop  this  kind  of  thing!  I  see  why  we 
ought  to  vote!" 

"Don't  you  see,  you  workmen  of  Moline,"  cried 
Bradfield,  "that  if,  instead  of  a  voiceless  lobby  there 
at  Springfield,  you  had  your  own  elected  representa 
tives  on  the  floor  of  that  house — there  with  the  right 
to  speak  and  the  burning  will  to  speak — we  could 
make  the  bought  slaves  on  that  floor  and  the  masters 
in  their  palaces  writhe  beneath  the  knout  of  ouc 
criticism?  Don't  you  know  that  our  voices  there, 
speaking  as  I  am  speaking  here,  would  shame  the 
State  of  Illinois  into  an  approach  to  civilization?" 

"It's  about  time  the  unions  found  tndt  out,"  said 
one  workingman  to  another  near  the  motor  car. 

When  Bradfield  closed  his  speech,  he  called  for 
questions,  and  briefly  answered  half  a  dozen  stock 
objections  to  socialism. 

"He  has  it  all  cut-and-dried,"  observed  De 
Hohenfels. 

"Do  you  call  that  cut-and-dried?"  exclaimed  Mar- 


THE    CHASM  137 

ion.  "It  seems  to  me  I  never  in  my  life  till  now  have 
heard  the  voice  of  intense  conviction!" 

"Well,  perhaps  when  he  was  dealing  with  new 
facts.  But  these  glib  answers — he  has  them  by  heart. 
I'd  like  to  ask  him  a  question  to  make  him  think, 
but " 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Marion. 

"Wouldn't  it  draw  too  much  attention  for  you?" 

"I  don't  mind  in  the  least."  She  sat  back,  leaving 
it  to  him  to  speak  or  not. 

"Is  there  any  other  question?"  called  Bradfield. 

"Suppose  you  socialists  get  power,"  said  De 
Hohenfels  in  a  clear,  incisive  voice  with  British  ac 
cent.  "Suppose  you  really  work  out  your  theories  in 
practise.  What  will  then  prevent  the  degeneration 
of  men?" 

"There  is  nothing  in  capitalism  to  prevent  it,"  re 
plied  Bradfield.  "Slums,  starvation,  overwork,  un 
derpay — these  cause  degeneration,  and  these  we  will 
remove." 

"You  miss  the  point.  Hard  conditions  have  de 
veloped  all  the  virile  strength  that  has  ever  existed. 
You  propose  to  remove  the  source  of  human 
strength." 

"Have  hard  conditions  developed  your  strength?" 
demanded  Bradfield.  The  workingmen  laughed,  and 
De  Hohenfels  wished  he  had  kept  out  of  it. 

"What  discipline  I  have  had  is  not  to  the  point," 
he  said.  "This  is  not  a  personal  question." 

"Then  generalize  it.  Either  thqre  is  no  strength 
in  what  are  called  the  upper  classes,  or  they  have 
developed  their  strength  under  easy  conditions.  You 
can  take  your  choice." 


138  THE     CHASM 

"It  is  a  well-known  fact,"  said  the  Russian,  prefer 
ring  not  to  choose,  "that  the  elimination  of  the  unfifc 
in  the  struggle  for  existence  has  been  the  chief  cause 
of  all  race  improvement.  Socialism  proposes  to 
make  existence  so  easy  for  all  that  even  the  most 
unfit  shall  survive  and  breed.  Even  sincere  socialists 
admit  this.  You  should  read  Jack  London's  'War 
of  the  Classes.'  ' 

"I  have,"  said  Bradfield.  "Jack  's  wrong — for 
once.  The  same  conditions  that  now  eliminate  the 
least  fit  also  reduce  the  vitality  of  the  most  fit.  The 
crushing  process  that  destroys  the  weak  half  de 
stroys  the  strong.  It  stunts  the  life  of  all!" 

"You  are  going  counter  to  the  whole  science  of 
biology." 

"No,  I  am  refusing  to  confuse  biology  and  so 
ciology." 

"Who,  may  I  ask,  is  your  authority  for  your  half- 
destruction  of  the  strong?" 

"I  am." 

De  Hohenfels  had  suspected  as  much,  but  did  not 
imagine  the  man  would  dare  avow  that  authority  as 
sufficient.  "You  will  have  to  pardon  me,"  said  the 
aristocrat,  "for  declining  to  accept  your  ex  cathedra 
statement,  and  for  continuing  to  believe  with  the 
rest  of  the  thinking  world  that  the  survivors  of  a 
severe  struggle  will  be  stronger  than  the  survivors 
of — no  struggle  at  all."  He  turned  to  the  chauffeur, 
wishing  to  end  the  argument  with  that,  but  Brad- 
field  forestalled  him. 

"A  hundred  men  have  malarial  fever  in  Missis 
sippi,"  he  said.  "Three  die.  Ninety-seven  crawl 
around  for  years — half-men  living  half-lives.  You 


THE     CHASM  139 

would  retain  the  swamp  for  the  sake  of  killing  the 
three." 

"That  case  is  too  special  to  base  a  theory  on." 
"If  you  care  to  listen  I'll  give  you  fifty  cases 
parallel.  On  second  thought  I  won't  grant  your 
principle  even  in  biology.  The  same  species  of  pine 
that  they  make  masts  of  where  the  tree  has  enough 
warmth  and  moisture,  grows  one  inch  high  and  has 
only  three  leaves  in  the  hard  conditions  near  the 
limits  of  vegetation.  Take  a  human  case  from  Jack 
London  whom  you  cite — his  'People  of  the  Abyss.' 
A  million  people  half-starve  in  the  dark,  dirty, 
crowded  rooms  of  London  tenements.  Many  die  of 
starvation,  many  of  tuberculosis.  What  of  the  sur 
vivors  of  those  hard  conditions?  Undersized,  spir 
itless  human  wrecks!" 

"The  real  survivors  of  that  struggle  you  will  find 
in  the  West  End  of  London." 

"In  these  days!  Too  few  to  count." 
"In  my  counting  those  few  are  worth  all  the  rest." 
"You  are  at  liberty  to  count  crazily  if  it  amuses 
you.  We  prefer  to  give  the  millions  who  are  now 
starved  and  frozen  and  stifled  into  unfitness  the 
chance  to  nourish  and  warm  themselves*into  fitness. 
My  proposition  stands.  Humanity  can  afford  to 
let  more  of  the  'unfit'  survive — for  the  sake  of  the 
heightened  splendor  of  life  in  all  the  fit.  Observe, 
by  the  way,  that  in  this  connection  'unfit'  means 
simply  unadapted  to  the  present  ignoble  money 
game.  Through  this  sieve  you  lose  some  of  the 
finest  souls  of  earth.  Leisure  is  good — especially 
that  leisure  we  shall  earn — with  a  moderate  amount 
of  healthful,  socially  useful  work.  You  should  have 


140  THE     CHASM 

more  faith  in  men,  my  friend,  than  to  believe  it  is 
good  for  you  to  loaf  and  invite  your  soul — but  bad 
for  the  other  fellow." 

"And  you  should  have  less  faith  in  men.  The 
fact  that  you  are  talking  here  on  the  street  instead 
of  in  the  Illinois  Legislature  proves  that  to  the  hilt. 
Why  don't  your  workingmen  elect  you?  They  are 
worth  nothing  but  scorn!  Go  on,  driver." 

"They  will  some  day,"  called  Bradfield. 

"Ye  didn't  exactly  eat  him  alive,"  shouted  a  work- 
ingman  beside  the  car  to  De  Hohenfels. 

As  the  big  gray-green  car  moved  off  beneath  the 
electric  light,  the  speaker  of  the  evening  had  a 
glimpse  of  Marion  Moulton  looking  back  at  him. 


XIII 

THOUGH  De  Hohenfels  had  "nothing  but 
scorn"  for  the  socialist  speaker's  ideals,  he 
was  impressed  by  the  man's  decided  person 
ality  and  undecadent  will.  As  the  car  glided  up 
toward  Hillcrest,  Marion,  intently  balancing  her 
impressions  of  the  two  men  she  had  just  seen  in 
conflict,  detected  a  note  of  unconscious  envy  in  the 
nobleman's  musing  question:  "Where  does  he  get 
that  passion?" 

"From  being  in  close  touch  with  a  vital,  wide 
spread  movement?"  she  suggested.  "Did  you  feel 
his  intimate  relation  with  the  crowd?" 

The  explanation  did  not  appeal  to  Feodor.  "Do 
you  suppose  he  is  a  student  of  that  college  we  saw 
this  afternoon?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "He  has  had  no  education." 

"Oh,  so  you  know  about  him?  Evidently  a  local 
celebrity." 

"His  parents  are  ignorant  peasants.  His  name  is 
Bradfield." 

She  was  about  to  add  that  she  knew  him  person 
ally,  but  De  Hohenfels  at  once  became  interested  in 
accounting  for  intelligence  from  such  a  source.  He 
thought  the  man  must  be  regarded  biologically  as  a 

141 


THE    CHASM 

"sport."  His  faith  in  heredity,  natural  in  an  aris 
tocrat,  had  been  increased  by  study  of  the  pedigrees 
of  blooded  horses  he  had  ridden  at  Tsarskoye-Selo 
and  Rome.  "Such  a  man's  children  are  likely  to 
inherit  the  ox-like  qualities  of  their  grand-parents," 
he  observed. 

Marion  looked  away  abruptly.  For  the  first  time 
she  thought  of  Bradfield  as  the  possible  father  of 
her  own  children,  and  De  Hohenfels's  suggestion 
made  her  shrink. 

The  idea  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  latent  in  the 
street-speaker's  arguments,  and  the  fear  Marion 
would  feel  that  he  himself  had  rushed  in  and  got 
the  worst  of  it  at  the  hands  of  a  workingman, 
stirred  De  Hohenfels  to  an  eloquent  exposition  of 
his  own  biologic-aristocratic  philosophy.  He  was 
in  full  swing  when  they  reached  Hillcrest,  and  con 
trary  to  his  custom,  was  so  obviously  interested  in 
what  he  was  saying,  that  he  hardly  stopped  while  he 
and  Marion  were  transferring  themselves  from  the 
car  to  their  favorite  fireplace.  It  was  his  own  esoteric 
doctrine,  cherished  the  more  because  really  under 
stood  by  only  a  few  recondite  spirits,  that  some  one 
small  class  or  section  of  the  present  race  of  man  is 
destined  to  sever  itself  from  the  mass  and  develop 
into  the  higher  race.  He  foresaw  races  of  men 
existing  on  earth  alongside  the  supermen  as  various 
ape  tribes  exist  alongside  men.  He  scoffed  at  the 
idea  of  a  feeling  of  brotherhood  toward  these  hos 
tile  lower  races,  and  took  for  touchstone  of  moral 
value  the  question,  "Will  this  retard  or  further  the 
coming  of  the  higher  race?" 

Marion  stimulated  his  idea  by  saying  that  what 


THE    CHASM  143 

she  had  read  concerning  the  superman  had  appealed 
to  her  imagination  but  not  to  her  reason. 

"What  you  have  readl"  protested  Count  Feodor. 
"My  idea  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  prevalent 
loose  habit  of  calling  mere  superior  individuals  su 
permen.  The  herd  have  the  word  and  are  goring  it  to 
death.  The  real  idea  never  dawns  on  them.  There 
is  no  reason  for  the  existence  of  any  such  term  except 
to  designate  a  not-yet-existing  but  possible  genus 
differing  from  man  as  genus  Homo  differs  from 
genus  Simia.  If  the  male  of  one  and  the  female  of 
the  other  group  can  habitually  reproduce,  there  is 
no  generic  difference.  If  their  offspring  can  also 
reproduce,  there  is  no  specific  difference." 

"Would  you  mind  putting  that  a  little  less  tech 
nically?"  said  Marion,  her  forehead  wrinkling  and 
then  relaxing  as  she  smiled. 

"What  I  am  driving  at  is  this.  Even  a  specific 
difference,  producing  hybrid  and  infertile  offspring, 
is  sufficient,  as  with  horse  and  ass,  to  sunder  two 
species  forever.  There  is  no  more  'brotherhood,5 
no  more  race-unity." 

"I  saw  two  Madagascar  wild  men,"  said  she,  af 
ter  some  silent  thinking.  "Their  keeper  called  them 
Houvres.  Their  skulls  were  very  small  and  sloped 
to  a  point  like  a  pyramid.  I  was  told  the  bone  was 
three  times  as  thick  as  ours,  and  their  spines  seemed 
to  run  straight  to  the  top  of  their  heads.  I  do  not 
think  their  brains  could  be  one  quarter  the  size  of 
ours.  Their  eyes  looked  human,  but  their  mouths! 
They  are  cannibals.  Do  you  suppose  they  are  be 
yond  the  boundary  line — of  our  species?  I  hope 
they  are !" 


144  THE     CHASM 

He  looked  at  her  approvingly.  "That  would  be 
most  interesting  to  know,"  he  said,  narrowing  his 
lids  in  thought.  "If  it  were  demonstrated  that 
their  unions  with  highly  developed  Europeans  could 
not  produce  grandchildren — it  would  dispose  biologi 
cally  of  sentimental  talk  about  the  brotherhood  of 
man." 

"But  we  all  come  from  the  same  ancestors," 
she  objected. 

"Yes.  From  that  one  branch  of  the  apes — the 
Pithecanthropus — which  differentiated  itself  from 
all  the  others." 

"I  see,"  said  Marion.  "You  have  a  precedent 
for  your  idea." 

"A  precedent?  I  have  thirty.  Every  race  in  our 
ancestry — back  to  the  plant  cytode< — offers  a  prece 
dent."  She  sat  for  a  moment  taking  that  in.  "There 
is  no  doubt  in  my  mind,"  he  said,  "that  the  existing 
varieties  of  men  constitute  what  biologists  call  incipi 
ent  species.  Whether  these,  or  some  of  these,  are 
to  become  permanent — that  is  the  most  important 
question  that  can  be  asked  concerning  man."  He 
rose  energetically  from  his  chair,  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  and  spoke  with  a  curious  blending  of  care 
fulness  and  passion.  "The  amphibian  could  not  keep 
the  ascending  section  of  his  race  from  becoming 
monotremes.  The  monotreme  had  to  project  out  of 
his  tribe  the  marsupial.  The  marsupial  had  to  let 
the  placentalia  split  away  and  upward.  The  pla- 
centals  could  not  hold  down  or  drag  back  that  branch 
of  themselves  who  became  primates.  The  primitive 
primate  could  not  maintain  brotherhood  with  the 
aspiring  prosimae.  Destiny  forced  the  prosimian 


THE     CHASM  145 

to  bring  forth  his  superior,  the  simian;  and  all  the 
ape-tribes  could  not  league  together  and  stop  the  rise 
of  us — the  superape  !  But  man — with  his  democ 
racy,  his  socialism,  his  brotherhood,  his  doctrine  of 
equality,  his  power  of  creating  an  omnipotent  majori 
ty  out  of  weak,  inferior  individuals — this  race  may 
thwart  destiny,  sterilize  itself,  abort,  and  not  bring 
forth  the  superman!" 

"Is  that  what  Bradfield's  movement  really 
means?"  exclaimed  Marion.  "I  had  no  idea  there 
was  so  much  real  reason  to  believe  we  actually  will 
develop  a  higher  race.  Why  if  that  is  so,  Fedya, 
that  rule  of  the  lower  bringing  forth  the  higher, 
then  that  is  the  reason  for  the  existence  of  man. 
If  our  race  does  not  give  birth  to  a  higher,  all  hu 
manity  will  have  existed  in  vainl" 

"And  we  will  be  the  first  to  fail — the  first  in  a 
hundred  million  years." 

"The  first  traitors  to  the  universe!  But  tell  me, 
Fedya — really  your  idea  is  wonderful — have  we  any 
thing  to  indicate  what  the  new  race  will  be  like?" 

"Only  speculation." 

"But  speculate!" 

He  went  and  sat  in  his  chair,  pushed  down  its 
back  with  his  shoulders,  and  half  reclined.  "One 
surmises  that  intellectually  the  superman  will  look 
as  from  air-ships — seeing  easily  all  the  relations  of 
multitudinous  things  minutely  known.  That  de 
scendant  of  ours  will  draw  steadily  on  such  sources 
of  power  and  knowledge  as  now  open  fitfully  to 
trance  psychics.  He  will  know  the  psychology  of 
superman,  and  man,  of  ape,  and  fish,  and  worm,  and 
even — what  the  sleeping  rocks  do  dream  of.  He 


146  THE     CHASM 

will  know  the  laws  of  eugenics — Mendelian  laws, 
and  apply  them  to  his  own  breeding.  He  will  exer 
cise  self-government,  not  be  governed  either  by  tsars 
or  by  majorities.  The  unconscious  development  by 
which  we  have  groped  and  stumbled  part  way  out 
of  darkness  he  will  replace  with  clear  and  conscious 
development.  He  will  rapidly  shape  his  race  into 
a  race  yet  higher,  training  his  children  into  powers 
more  perfect  than  his  own.  He  will  know  he  is  not 
descended  from  gods  or  god-like  men  who  fell.  But 
he,  child  of  the  worm,  is  father  of  the  gods!  The 
gods  were  man's  deep  dream  of  what  man  is  to 
be." 

"It  takes  my  breath,  your  vision!"  said  Marion, 
low.  "I  feel  the  immense  past  and  future!  A 
child  was  always  wonderful — but  now!  Think  of 
it!  A  link  in  the  cha-in  of  life  from  worm  to  god!" 

"He  will  be  greater  in  will,  in  courage,  in  psychic 
power,"  dreamed  De  Hohenfels,  " — able  to  con 
trol  men  as  men  do  dogs — or  the  dog  kind  of  men." 

"The  idea  is  glorious!"  she  said.  "You  give  your 
superman  a  superhuman  mind  and  will.  But — why 
is  he  so  ruthless,  so  cold?  He  will  know,  he  will 
know!  Is  there  no  superhuman  heart?" 

"He  is  certainly  no  sentimentalist,  no  non-resister, 
no  sympathizer  with  inferiority." 

"No,"  she  agreed,  "but  I  see  I  will  have  to  have 
a  superman  of  my  own.  My  superman  is  going  to 
be  a  greater  lover  and  friend  than  any  man  has 
been.  He  is  going  to  love  supermen,  and  men,  and 
animals " 

"And  superwomen,"  interposed  Fedya. 


THE     CHASM  147 

"He'd  be  a  superfool  if  he  didn't!"  she  retorted, 
her  eyes  becoming  joyous. 

"His  love  can  be  no  sweeter  to  him  than  mine  to 
me!"  he  said  with  sudden  ardor. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  quickly  and  pressed  his, 
but  turned  away  her  face  and  held  him  back  from 
kissing.  "Over  there,  over  there!"  she  commanded, 
pointing  to  his  chair. 

"That  sweet,  sure  pride  of  yours  in  feminine  in- 
dispensability — that  woman-knowledge  of  your 
own  value — is  simply  ravishing!"  he  protested. 

"You  will  now  state  the  objection  I  saw  in  your 
eyes  to  my  warm-hearted  superman." 

"My  head  is  too  full  of  a  cold-hearted  woman." 

"You  know  I'm  not.  It's  too  bad  you  have  to 
go  and  spoil  a  good  talk.  You  interrupted  a  most 
poetic  remark  I  was  about  to  make  and  now  I  can't 
remember  it." 

He  gave  a  shrug  and  sat  down.  "How,"  he  asked, 
resuming  his  wonted,  faintly  ironic  tone,  "is  this 
amiable  being  of  yours  to  dominate,  to  subdue,  per 
haps  in  scornful  mercy  to  prevent  the  birth  of,  the 
hordes  of  men  who  threaten  his  existence?" 

She  could  not  say.  He  made  her  feel  she  was 
too  facile  with  her  warm-hearted  superman.  Ruth- 
lessness,  coldness,  were  traits  essential  to  any  domi 
nant  race  or  class  which  was  to  develop  into  a  dis 
tinct  new  species.  According  to  Fedya,  this  was 
the  unconscious  aspiration  of  every  aristocracy — the 
instinctive  motive  of  its  effort  to  differentiate  itself 
from  the  mass.  "The  instinct  of  the  mass,"  he  said, 
"is  to  drag  back  and  reabsorb  all  such  aspiring  life. 


148  THE     CHASM 

In  the  past,  I  admit,  the  mass  of  mankind  has  been 
successful.  Somewhere,  somewhen, — mankind  will 
be  overcome.  The  lords  of  war,  Alexander,  Csesar, 
Napoleon,  failed.  The  lords  of  wealth  may  not. 
The  intense  and  successful  effort  to  draw  the  bulk 
of  the  life-sustaining  wealth  of  the  world  into  the 
power  of  a  tiny  social  fraction  may  be,  at  bottom, 
a  concentration  of  racial  energy,  destined  to  create 
a  special  environment,  mold  the  new  race,  and 
force  a  'chosen  people'  of  nature  across  the  chasm 
sundering  species  from  species,  superman  from 
man!" 

She  gave  an  exclamation  of  comprehension.  This 
vaster  vision  of  Feodor's — was  it  the  other  side, 
the  cosmic  import,  of  that  class-struggle  seen  nar 
rowly  by  Bradfield?  Was  this  the  issue  underlying 
all  man's  battles — raging  yesterday,  today,  tomor 
row,  and  only  to  be  settled  in  future  geologic  time? 
If  so,  in  her  recent  sympathy  with  Bradfield's  ideas 
had  she  been  guilty  of  disloyalty  not  merely  to  her 
class,  but  also  to  the  highest  hope  and  possibility 
of  man?  "Feodor:"  she  said,  "is  this  tendency  of 
every  race  to  fork  and  send  one  branch  upward  the 
real  cause  of  that  class  struggle  preached  by  the  so 
cialists?" 

"I  should  say  that  struggle  is  a  phase  of  the  fork 
ing;  process — yes." 

''Then  his  aim — their  aim — with  their  immense 
numerical  superiority — to  wrest  control  of  the 
wealth  producing  forces  from  us ?" 

"Is  the  same  old  instinct  of  the  mass — its  latest, 
strongest,  most  dangerous  expression." 

"But  from  their  point  of  view — or  say  from  the 


THE    CHASM  149 

point  of  view  of  humanity  as  a  whole — isn't  their 
attempt  to  reabsorb  us  the  effort  of  the  organism 
called  mankind  to  preserve  its  unity?" 

"Yes.  Exactly.  Thereby  preventing  the  upward 
movement  of  the  new  and  highest  branch  of  the 
tree  of  life.  Socialism  is  reactionary  in  that  it  blocks 
the  progress  of  the  most  powerful  few  toward 
greater  power.  If  the  socialistic  tendency  prevails, 
if  humanity  retains  its  unity,  real  progress  will  be 
checked  and  the  new  race  will  not  be  born." 

"But  if  we  prevail ?" 

"Then  the  pain  and  strain  and  misery  of  the 
laboring  world  are  only  pangs  of  the  birth  of  the 
higher  race  of  which  humanity  is  destined  to  be — 
the  mother!" 

They  sat  awhile  in  silence,  thinking.  The  idea  the 
man  had  somewhat  coldly  formed  by  study  and  con 
structive  thought  tended  to  take  on,  in  the  warm 
imagination  of  the  girl,  the  splendor  of  a  new  and 
vital  myth.  Here  in  the  human  future  loomed  a 
new  Messiah,  not  one  to  save  a  little  nation  in  bat 
tle,  nor  yet  to  save  mankind  in  some  mystic,  spiritual 
way  by  sacrificing  himself,  but  one  for  whom  human 
ity  must  sacrifice  itself,  as  parent  for  child,  a  Son  of 
Man  whom  Mankind  must  either  destroy  in  its  own 
womb — or  bring  to  birth !  Marion  sighed.  "Fedya," 
she  said,  "if  I  looked  through  your  eyes  too  much  I 
would  be  terribly  sad.  I  do  not  think  my  mind 
could  bear  that  vast  and  tragic  vision.  I  wonder  if 
it  is  really  true." 

"What  makes  you  doubt  it?" 

"If  it  was  a  question  of  myself  and  those  hor 
rible  Houvres — they  are  ages  behind  us — they  do 


150  THE     CHASM 

seem  another  species.  But  I  do  not  feel  even  an  in 
cipient  race  difference  between  myself  and — say 
Bradfield.  In  his  youth  my  great-grandfather  Moul- 
ton  was  nothing  but  a  common  blacksmith.  Aren't 
you  afraid  to  marry — such  a  plebeian?" 

"You  plebeian!  You  have  every  mark  of  the 
blood!  That  astonished  me  when  I  first  saw  you 
in  Rome.  You  can't  tell  where  it  flows.  Every 
where  in  Europe  it  has  been  mixed  with  Dravidian, 
Pelasgian, — oh,  all  sorts  of  baser  strains  of  con 
quered  peoples.  For  instance,  some  think  not  a 
trace  of  Aryan  blood  remains  In  Greece.  It  died 
out  there  under  too  much  light.  That  blacksmith  of 
yours  may  have  carried  the  old  blood  in  unusual 
purity." 

"Then  so  may  Bradfield." 

"Bradfield?"  he  said,  looking  at  her  curiously. 
"No.  He's  composite — orthocephalic." 

"Can  you  tell  so  accurately?" 

"Not  accurately.  I  know  the  pure  types  and  can 
sometimes  guess  their  intermixtures." 

"But  if  the  blood  flows  everywhere " 

"It  generally  flows  near  the  top  or  toward  it." 

She  was  inclined  to  believe  it.  "How  about  your 
people,  Feodor?"  she  asked.  "How  do  you  come 
to  have  a  German  name?" 

"An  ancestor — of  an  ancient  German  family  of 
knightly  rank — taken  prisoner  in  the  reign  of  Ivan 
the  Terrible — settled  in  Courland." 

"And  is  all  the  rest  of  you  Russian?  Oh,  of 
course,  the  Countess  Xenia — that  makes  you  half 
Polish,  doesn't  it?  How  about  your  father?  Tell 


THE     CHASM  151 

me  about  him,  Fedya.  I  am  not  even  sure  of  his 
name." 

"Lyof  Alexievitch." 

"What  kind  of  a  man  was  he?" 

"Typically  a  liberal.  A  university  student  in  the 
days  leading  to  the  Emancipation.  Court  influence 
and  a  railway  concession.  Lucky  thing,  for  he'd  lost 
money  in  a  paper  mill.  He  was  close  to  Alexander 
II  in  the  movement  for  the  constitution  in  '8 1.  A 
great  orator  in  his  generation,  but — tastes  have 
changed.  I  couldn't  abide  his  carefully  balanced 
politico-moral  harangues."  He  looked  at  Marion 
for  explanation  of  her  smile. 

"Were  they  anything  like  the  messages  of  our 
strenuous  President?" 

"Very  much.  His  model  was  Gladstone.  He  was 
forever  standing  on  some  oratorical  teterboard  and 
deprecating  reaction  on  the  one  hand  and  revolu 
tion  on  the  other.  In  the  reaction  after  the  assassin 
ation  of  Alexander  he  lost  all  influence,  lived  on 
his  estates,  and  spent  the  winters  in  Rome.  He 
hoped  to  return  to  power  in  '94  when  Nicholas 
came  in,  but  when  he  found  the  young  Tsar  blowing 
hot  and  cold  with  every  wind  he  gave  it  up,  sold  the 
St.  Petersburg  house,  and  bought  the  Palazzo 
Zuccari." 

"So  that  is  how  you  came  to  live  in  Rome." 

"A  year  ago  last  February  when  the  Tsar  gave 
out  the  Duma  manifesto  and  announced  his  indomi 
table  will  to  rule  through  the  representatives  of  the 
people,  my  father  hailed  it  as  the  fulfilment  of  his 
old  dream  of  constitutional  Russia.  Had  he  lived 


152  THE     CHASM 

he  would  have  had  himself  elected.  Just  before  his 
death,  he  made  me  promise  I  would  stand.  I  am 
doing  it  now.  The  elections  are  going  on  this 
month.  Am  I  not  an  enthusiastic  candidate?"  See 
ing  she  did  not  quite  like  his  tone,  he  added,  "I 
might  have  taken  some  interest,  but  after  the  Mos 
cow  revolution  was  safely  suppressed,  the  Tsar  be 
gan  to  talk  about  his  indomitable  will  to  bear  the 
burden  of  government  all  alone.  I  thought  then  he 
was  going  to  throw  over  the  Duma  altogether.  I'm 
glad  I  did  think  it,  for  that  is  what  sent  me  to 
Rome  and — you!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  hers.  She  gave  it  ab 
sent-mindedly,  thinking  that  if  she  married  him  she 
would  have  to  get  him  to  take  that  Duma  more 
seriously.  Just  now  she  wanted  more  light  on  the 
working  of  heredity  in  the  Hohenfels  family.  She 
thought  of  Fedya's  Catholic  uncle,  Prince  Razinsky, 
a  cynical  little  man  she  had  met  at  her  ball  in  Rome; 
and  then  De  Hohenfels,  though  somewhat  bored, 
had  to  tell  her  about  his  grandfather,  Alexis  Feo- 
dorovitch,  who,  it  seemed,  had  amounted  to  little 
in  the  army,  never  sought  court  favor,  married  a 
beautiful  girl  of  uninfluential  family,  was  something 
of  a  musician  and  poet,  and  fond  of  country  life. 
The  father  of  Alexis  was  Feodor  de  Hohenfels,  a 
general  of  the  Napoleonic  wars,  who  wore  many 
stars  and  crosses  and  medals,  married  the  Princess 
Sarmatoff,  one  of  the  great  dames  of  the  period, 
stood  high  with  Alexander  I,  and  became  Governor- 
General  of  Courland.  He  was  a  typical  bureaucrat, 
orthodox,  intolerant,  bigoted,  cruel  to  his  peasants. 

Marion  could  not  find  what  she  was  looking  for — 


THE     CHASM  153 

some  unifying  thread  of  character,  tendency,  or  tem 
perament  in  the  various  generations.  Of  course  she 
was  following  only  a  single  thread  of  the  complex 
web  of  Fedya's  ancestry,  but  as  far  as  it  went  the 
history  seemed  to  show  that  each  man  was  chiefly 
a  product  of  his  time — a  result  of  its  dominant  ideas 
woven  into  the  soul  of  each  in  the  formative  period 
of  youth.  She  could  discern  no  definite  Hohenfels 
type  nor  anything  justifying  in  the  least  the  idea  of 
a  tendency  toward  a  distinct  and  higher  variety  of 
the  human  species,  and  yet  Marion  went  to  bed  that 
night  with  two  powerful  impressions — one  that  Walt 
Bradfield's  children  might  be  like  his  parents  rather 
than  like  him,  the  other  that  the  child  of  Count 
Feodor,  descending  from  the  master  class  of  eastern 
Europe,  would  be  likely  to  begin  life  higher  in  the 
scale. 

And  through  her  soul  as  she  sank  asleep  was 
filtering  that  overpowering  lonely  myth — dynamic 
as  the  myths  that  have  given  birth  to  world-religions 
— the  vision  of  mankind  as  a  female,  parthenogeni- 
tal,  big  with  the  embryonic  daughter-race  that  shall 
replace  us  as  the  mistress  of  the  earth! 


XIV 

EARLY  next  morning  when  Marion,  half 
awake,  began  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  yes 
terday,  she  felt  vaguely  as  though  she  had 
drifted  into  some  conspiracy  against  the  human  race. 
She  found  herself  in  recoil  against  the  Hohenfelsian 
interpretation  of  life.  It  affected  too  profoundly 
her  feeling  toward  the  mass  of  people  in  the  world. 
It  changed  things  too  much.  It  made  the  dear  old 
earth  too  wild  and  strange  a  theater  for  too  vast  a 
drama.  Rising  to  close  her  window,  she  saw  the  sol 
emn  sunrise  and  felt  homesick  for  her  simple  old 
view  of  things  as  they  are — things  unlit  by  the  weird 
light  that  shines  back  on  them  from  an  immense 
and  vividly  imagined  future.  That  actually  exist 
ing  man  there  spading  the  garden  beds  beneath  the 
gorgeous,  silent  sky — she  started,  seeing  that  the 
man  was  Walt.  Her  heart  went  out  to  him.  For 
the  moment  he  was  representative  of  the  race  of 
men.  At  that  dull  work!  Last  night  his  face  and 
gestures  were  expressive  of  intellectual  energy,  his 
eyes  alert  and  lit,  his  voice  ringing  with  conviction. 
Now  his  slow,  steady  movements  as  he  cut  and 
turned  the  crumbling  soil,  seemed  to  spring  from  a 

154 


THE     CHASM  155 

totally  different  temperament.  Was  this  the  tem 
perament  he  had  inherited — and  might  transmit? 
Or  were  the  temperaments  of  the  digger  of  the 
earth  and  of  the  man  of  intellect  after  all  formable 
and  transformable  products  of  their  occupations? 
What  would  he  have  to  say  concerning  the  powerful 
new  impression  she  had  received  from  Feodor? 
Could  the  magnificent  religious  idea  of  the  higher 
race  survive  his  criticism?  She  dressed  without  call 
ing  Mathilde,  and  went  down  to  him;  but  in  his 
presence  lost  hold  of  the  things  she  wanted  to  talk 
about.  She  was  embarrassed  to  begin  with  because 
she  did  not  know  how  to  address  him. 

He  answered  her  "good  morning"  with  the  same 
non-committal  greeting,  and  came  over  to  the  edge 
of  the  concrete  driveway  along  which  she  was  walk 
ing.  "You're  up  early,"  he  said,  starting  to  spade 
up  a  new  bed. 

"Yes, — I  saw  you  here  from  my  window." 

He  glanced  up  at  it  unconsciously,  showing  that 
he  knew  where  it  was.  "This  is  about  the  only  time 
of  day  you "  He  left  it  unsaid. 

She  hastened  to  break  the  silence.  "I  was  im 
pressed  by  your  speech  last  night.  It's  a  shame  the 
employers  do  not  do  all  those  things  of  their  own 
free  will — without  legislation  compelling  them.  It's 
simply  barbarous.  Personally  they  seem  like  good, 
kind  men.  I  cannot  understand  their  attitude." 

"I  can,"  he  said,  but  evidently  did  not  care  to  go 
into  the  subject. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  a  public  speaker."  This 
too  failed,  and  she  became  uncomfortably  aware  of 
the  banality  of  her  remarks.  "I  suppose  you  know 


156  THE     CHASM 

that  was  the  Count  de  Hohenfels?"  she  said,  trying 
to  get  to  reality.  "How  did  he  impress  you?" 

"As  being  pleasantly  situated." 

"You  aren't  in  a  very  good  humor  this  morning. 
I  think  Count  de  Hohenfels  admired  you  very 
much." 

"I  had  the  honor  last  night  of  dining  with  his 
valet.  James  informs  me  that  the  Count  has  with 
him  fifty-six  shirts  and  he  himself  fourteen." 

"And  from  that  you  conclude?"     She  spoke  cold- 

]y-  , 

"That  the  Count  is  four  times  as  good  a  man." 

"I  think  you  are  horrid,"  she  said,  looking  him 
reproachfully  in  the  eyes.  "I  did  not  expect  it  of 
you." 

"Did  you  expect  of  me  the  pettily  amiable  hypoc 
risy  of  pretending  not  to  be  jealous?" 

"Oh,"  said  she,  readjusting  her  ideas.  She  re 
garded  him  thoughtfully,  her  expression  changing. 
"What  an  utterly  frank  thing  you  are  1" 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  unflattered. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  to  tell  you.  I  could  do  it 
now." 

"Don't  you  really  know?" 

"I  thought  I  did — last  night." 

"And  now  you  like  me  again?" 

"Yes.     Miserable  jellyfish  that  I  am!" 

"Nonsense!     Why  don't  you  accept  facts?" 

"What  facts?" 

"The  big  one.  That  you  are  in  love  with  both 
of  us." 

"But  that  is  dreadful!"  she  gasped,  shivering  at 
his  simplicity  and  directness. 


THE     CHASM  157 

"Dreadful  or  not,  you  can't  do  anything  till  you 
face  it.  Stop  muddling  yourself  by  denying  what's 
so." 

"But  what  shall  I  do?"  she  pleaded. 

He  was  tempted  to  take  advantage  of  her  mo 
mentary  helpless  reliance  on  his  judgment,  but  felt 
instinctively  that  he  could  really  gain  nothing  except 
through  clearness  and  truth.  It  was  these  in  him 
which  made  her  rely  on  him,  and  confused  though 
she  was,  he  knew  she  would  instantly  sense  any  de 
parture  from  them  in  him.  "Before  you  try  to 
decide  what  to  do,"  he  said,  "you  must  unsnarl  your 
ideas." 

"That's  what  I  have  been  trying  to  do.  How  is 
it  to  be  done?" 

"In  the  first  place  you  must  accept  your  nature 
as  it  is  and  stop  condemning  it  for  not  conforming 
to  ideal  preconceptions." 

"I'm  not  aware  of  having  any." 

"They  are  woven  right  into  your  thinking.  A 
minute  ago  I  stated  the  fact,  and  your  thought-pro 
cess  was:  'That  cannot  be  true,  for  that  is  dreadful 
and  I  am  not  dreadful.' ' 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  she  said  defiantly,  and  then  see 
ing  him  ready  to  give  it  up,  she  forced  herself  to 
follow  his  reasoning.  "Yes — I  see  what  you  mean. 
'I  am  not  dreadful'  is  an  ideal  preconception.  You 
want  me  to  look  at  the  bare  facts,  and " 

"And  nothing  else,"  he  insisted. 

"It  is  hard  when  the  facts  are  one's  own  heart." 

"I  think  I  know  the  circle  you  have  been  mov 
ing  in,  and  worrying  over.  The  other  night  with 
me — you  loved  me!  Oh,  you  did!"  He  paused, 


158  THE     CHASM 

repressing  the  emotion  which  had  involuntarily 
found  voice.  "If  I  don't  look  out  I  can't  think 
clearly  either.  Here :  the  fact  that  you  actually 
are  in  love  with  two  men  calls  for  revision  of  your 
traditional  theory  that  a  girl  can  love  but  one. 
You  have  been  trying  to  revise  the  fact.  It  is  a 
false  assumption  that  if  one  love  is  true  the  other 
must  be  false.  They  are  both  true." 

"Both  true?  But  what  then?" 

"The  fact  first,"  he  insisted.     "Is  it  the  fact?" 

"It  does  seem  to  explain  things.  Yes,  I  suppose 
it  really  is  the  fact.  But  if  they  are  both  true," 
she  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  thinking  aloud,  "then 
one,  though  true,  must  be  disregarded." 

He  realized  which  one  would  be  disregarded, 
and  groped  for  some  way  to  hold  her. 

"And  that  leaves  everything  just  where  it  was 
to  begin  with,"  she  concluded. 

"Not  quite.  You  have  accepted  in  your  own 
mind  the  fact  that  your  love  for  me  too  is  'true.'  ' 

"I  see  I  have  been  too  completely  off  my  guard," 
she  said.  "I  seemed  to  be  using  your  mind  to 
think  with  as  though  it  were  my  own.  It  won't  be 
a  bit  magnanimous  of  you  if  you " 

"If  I ?" 

"I  didn't  realize  just  where  that  impersonal,  scien 
tific  method  of  yours  was  leading." 

"What's  the  trouble?  Have  you  realized  you 
ought  to  tell  De  Hohenfels  the  real  state  of  things?" 

She  was  silent.  She  felt  she  had  been  trapped 
into  a  fatal  conclusion.  It  would  be  unfair  to  Feo- 
dor  not  to  tell  him,  and  if  she  told  him  that  she  loved 
"the  son  of  ignorant  peasants,"  expecting  him  to 


THE     CHASM  159 

admit  such  a  man  to  the  equality  of  rivalry,  she 
felt  he  would  simply  decline  such  competition  and 
withdraw.  For,  if  anything,  the  class  instinct  of  the 
Russian  aristocracy,  implanted  in  the  boy  Feodor  by 
social  transmission,  had  gained  intensity  by  the  far- 
reaching  philosophic  and  poetic  ideas  which  he  him 
self  had  woven  into  it — or,  as  he  himself  would  say, 
had  found  in  it.  In  him  class  instinct  was  reinforced 
by  visioned  biologic  destiny.  Seeing  no  honorable 
way  to  avoid  losing  him,  the  pain  of  it  taught  the  girl 
better  than  she  had  ever  known  it  how  much  she 
wanted  him.  Her  desperation  turned  her  against 
Walt.  Just  then  she  felt,  however  unfairly,  that  he 
was  to  blame — for  coming  between  her  and  Feodor, 
— for  leading  her  with  his  seemingly  disinterested 
logic  into  this  position.  "I  never  should  have  made 
that  admission  even  to  myself!"  she  broke  out.  "You 
took  advantage  of  my  openness  to  force  me  into 
it." 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  retorted,  defend 
ing  himself,  but  feeling  that  his  cause,  hopeless  to 
him  always,  except  for  a  few  wild,  exalted  moments, 
was  lost.  "There  was  no  taking  advantage  about 
it.  As  for  forcing  you  into  it — it  was  your  own 
honesty  that  did  that." 

She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  dismay  at  the  sight  of 
Count  Feodor  strolling  from  the  front  of  the  house, 
and  looking  curiously  at  her  and  Bradfield.  Check 
ing  her  first  impulse  to  go  toward  him  so  as  to  avert 
a  meeting  between  the  two  men,  she  waved  her  hand 
to  him  as  a  signal  for  him  to  join  her.  "We  have 
been  talking  about  your  speech,"  she  said  signifi 
cantly  to  Walt. 


160 

"You  are  making  a  bad  beginning,"  he  warned 
her.  "If  you  can't  be  frank  with  him  about  this !" 

"Please  leave  that  to  me!"  She  spoke  low  and 
sharply.  "This  is  certainly  not  the  time  to  tell  him 
anything  about  you  and  me." 

"That  may  be.  But  I  doubt  if  you  ever  do  tell 
him." 

"Good  morning,  Fedya,"  called  Marion,  raising 
her  voice  a  little. 

Count  Feodor  returned  her  greeting,  throwing 
away  his  cigarette,  and  doffing  his  cap.  His  newly 
pressed  English-looking  clothes,  svelte  footgear  in 
nocent  of  wrinkle,  and  immaculate  colored  linen 
were  in  striking  contrast  with  Walt's  russet  shirt  and 
thick-soled  shoes  bent  up  at  the  toes. 

"This  is  Mr.  Bradfield,"  said  Marion. 

Hohenfels  stared,  not  conceiving  that  Marion 
could  be  intending  to  place  a  gardener  with  whom 
she  happened  to  be  talking  on  the  footing  of  social 
equality  implied  by  an  introduction. 

"After  last  night  an  introduction  seems  belated," 
said  Marion,  trying  to  fill  the  awkward  pause. 

"Oh,"  said  De  Hohenfels.  "You  are  the  street- 
speaker.  I  didn't  recognize  you.  In  the  torchlight, 
you  know,  you  really  looked  quite  fierce." 

"I  doubt  if  even  a  Nietzschian  could  look  fierce 
making  garden,"  observed  Bradfield,  and  resumed 
his  spading. 

It  was  startling  to  Hohenfels  to  hear  himself  so 
characterized  by  a  man  so  dressed,  so  working.  "I 
doubt  if  a  Nietzschian  would  be  making  garden," 
he  observed,  not  concealing  his  lack  of  high  regard 
for  that  ancient  occupation. 


THE     CHASM  161 

"I  think  he  would  if  it  was  make  garden  or  not 
eat,"  said  Bradfield  with  cheerful  conviction. 

Marion  saw  that  Fedya  was  irritated  at  his  fail 
ure  to  think  of  some  effective  repartee.  "Speaking 
of  not  eating,"  said  she,  "suppose  we  see  if  we 
can  get  some  breakfast."  She  turned  toward  the 
house. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  Count.  "Do  you  work 
here  regularly,  Mr.  Bradfield?" 

"Yes,"  said  Walt.  He  was  thinking  how  sym 
bolic  it  was  that  he  was  once  more  to  see  Marion 
going  away  with  De  Hohenfels. 

"Then,  no  doubt,  I  will  have  the  pleasure  of  more 
discussion  of  Nietzschianity.  But  I  was  thinking 
what  confidence  you  must  have  in  Mr.  Moulton's 
magnanimity — to  agitate  against  his  interests  while 
in  his  employ." 

Was  it  a  threat?  Walt  was  warm  and  chanced  it. 
"Possibly  no  one  has  taken  upon  himself  the  role  of 
informer!"  His  hostile  look  square  into  the  eyes  of 
De  Hohenfels  left  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  his  mean 
ing. 

"That  is  a  very  singular  thing  for  you  to  say," 
said  Marion,  looking  back  at  him. 

"Whatever  you  may  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Brad- 
field,"  said  Hohenfels,  turning  to  go,  "it  sounds 
awfully — Nietzschian." 

As  Marion  and  he  went  in  she  told  him  that  she 
had  hitherto  found  Bradfield  interesting  and  agree 
able,  but  did  not  like  him  so  well  since  he  made  those 
bitter  remarks. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  he  worked  here  and  you 
knew  him?" 


162  THE    CHASM 

"I  started  to  last  night,  but — just  then  you  began 
philosophizing  about  him." 

He  remembered  turning  the  conversation,  but — it 
seemed  curious. 

Irritated  by  the  gardener's  conviction  that  it  was 
accident  and  circumstance  and  not  anything  inherent 
in  character  which  relieved  the  aristocrat  from  the 
necessity  of  digging  for  a  living,  Count  Feodor  had 
in  fact  made  his  remark  about  Mr.  Moulton  in  or 
der  to  make  Bradfield  fear  the  loss  of  his  job.  He 
had  laid  hold  of  the  idea  only  because  the  gardener 
was  getting  the  best  of  their  swift  exchange  of  intel 
lectual  pistol  shots,  and  he  did  not  fancy  leaving  the 
field  in  defeat — protected  by  Marion. 

He  saw  it  would  now  have  a  bad  effect  to  let  her 
know  the  man  had  any  sort  of  justification  for  his 
cutting  remarks.  For  one  thing,  it  would  give  her 
too  high  an  opinion  of  his  penetration.  It  was  easier 
to  let  her  go  on  thinking  no  such  idea  as  Bradfield 
accused  him  of  had  ever  crossed  his  mind,  than  to 
try  to  make  her  see  that  even  if  he  really  should 
speak  to  Mr.  Moulton  about  his  gardener's  political 
agitation,  there  would  be  no  element  of  baseness  or 
treason  in  the  act.  He  was  not  a  comrade  of  Brad- 
field,  and  he  would  not  be  playing  the  informer  for 
pay.  But  it  was  fortunate  for  him  that  he  did  not  try 
to  justify  himself  along  this  line,  for  the  girl  would 
have  thought  it  a  poor  business  to  use  such  a  weapon 
against  a  workingman. 

He  spent  the  morning  at  the  piano,  weaving  on  its 
strings  incessant,  shifting,  complex  webs  of  beauty  so 
unearthly  that,  felt  through  them,  the  present  world 
became  at  times  to  Marion  no  whit  less  wonderful 


THE    CHASM  163 

than  that  distant,  unknown  future  which  veiled  the 
far-off  goal  of  man.  Outside  on  the  garden  beds 
Walt  listened — and  dug. 

At  luncheon,  Mr.  Moulton,  warming  up  a  little, 
and  Count  Feodor  found  points  of  contact;  and 
Moulton  invited  him  to  call  at  his  office  any  time  he 
cared  to  go  through  the  shops.  Finding  that  Marion 
was  going  to  some  reception,  De  Hohenfels  went 
down  that  afternoon,  and  was  escorted  through  the 
magnificent  establishment  of  the  United  States  Plow 
Company  by  the  company's  salaried  inventor,  an 
expert  mechanic  whose  labor-saving  improvements- 
were  already  saving  the  company  scores  of 
thousands  of  dollars  annually  in  wages.  He  was  a 
quiet,  modest  fellow.  The  company  owned  the 
patents  on  all  his  improvements.  De  Hohenfels 
found  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  this  arrange 
ment.  He  had  the  power  to  endow  machinery  with 
human-seeming  intelligence,  but  did  not  use  it  him 
self  in  considering  his  own  economic  status.  "How 
indispensable  to  us  are  brainy  fools!"  the  Russian 
gentleman  philosophized. 

Mr.  Moulton  met  Mrs.  Pearson  downtown.  Their 
brief  conversation  as  she  sat  in  her  automobile  along 
side  the  curb,  sufficed  to  alarm  him  as  to  the  serious 
ness  of  Marion's  affair  with  Bradfield.  In  the  Lady 
Diotima's  opinion,  his  son-in-law  was  going  to  be 
either  Walt  Bradfield  or  Feodor  de  Hohenfels,  and 
the  logical  thing  for  him  was  to  do  what  he  could 
to  make  it  the  gentleman  and  not  the  gardener. 

Moulton  thereupon  went  out  of  his  way  to  pick 
up  De  Hohenfels  at  the  plow  works;  and  as  they 
came  whizzing  into  the  Hillcrest  grounds  before  din- 


164  THE     CHASM 

ner,  Bradfield  looked  up  from  the  fresh  black  earth 
he  had  been  all  day  spading,  and  saw  his  employer 
and  the  foreign  visitor  together.  The  Count  nodded 
to  him  as  the  machine  went  by,  and  a  moment  later 
Walt  saw  Mr.  Moulton  look  back  at  him. 

About  half  past  seven,  after  Eldridge  had  gone 
around  with  the  car  which  was  to  take  Marion,  Mrs. 
Moulton  and  De  Hohenfels  to  a  performance  of 
"You  Never  Can  Tell"  in  Davenport,  Bradfield  re^ 
ceived  a  summons  to  Mr.  Moulton's  study. 

The  employer  sized  him  up  with  interest.  "I  un 
derstand,"  said  he,  "that  last  night  at  a  street  meet 
ing  you  made  an  incendiary  speech  against  the  Illi 
nois  Manufacturers'  Association." 

"If  it  is  'incendiary'  to  tell  the  facts  about  the  de 
feat  of  the  Curran  bill,  I  did." 

"The  facts  as  you  understand  them,"  corrected 
Mr.  Moulton. 

"The  facts."  He  might  have  argued  the  point, 
but  was  too  deeply  interested  in  the  source  of  Mr. 
Moulton's  information. 

"We'll  pass  that  point,  seeing  you  do  not  care  to 
substantiate  your  claim  to  absolute  knowledge  of 
the  facts.  You  also  indulged  in  some  perfervid  rhet 
oric  on  the  subject." 

"Did  De  Hohenfels  call  it  'perfervid  rhetoric'?" 
inquired  Walt. 

Mr.  Moulton  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  in 
terest  in  this  question. 

"I  believe  my  informant  called  it  'hot  air,'  "  he 
observed  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

Walt  looked  at  Mr.  Moulton  keenly,  and  set 
the  remark  down  as  an  extremely  clever  attempt  to 


THE     CHASM  165 

throw  him  off  the  track.  De  Hohenfels  had  cer 
tainly  never  said  "hot  air." 

"Do  you  think  of  giving  up  your  job  here  with 
me?"  asked  Mr.  Moulton. 

"No,  sir." 

"I  have  certain  reasons  for  wishing  not  to  make 
a  martyr  of  you,  but  you  cannot  work  here  and  go 
on  talking  as  you  did  last  night." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bradfield. 

"Does  that  mean  you  give  up  the  job?" 

"As  long  as  I  hold  the  job  I  won't  speak." 

"That  sounds  as  though  you  didn't  expect  to  hold 
the  job  long." 

"I  haven't  said  anything  about  quitting." 

"Let  us  be  perfectly  aboveboard,  Bradfield.  Do 
you  intend  to  stay  here  merely  until  the  next  time  you 
want  to  speak?" 

"I'm  not  looking  that  far  ahead  just  now,  Mr. 
Moulton.  That  would  be  a  natural  thing  to  do — 
if  I  could  get  other  work." 

"I've  said  all  I  wish  to — this  time,"  said  Mr. 
Moulton  after  a  moment's  thought.  "That's  all, 
Bradfield." 

"May  I  ask  if  it  was  the  Count  de  Hohenfels  who 
told  you  about  my  speech  last  night?" 

"As  a  general  thing  I  do  not  discuss  the  sources 
of  such  information.  I  see  no  reason  for  departing 
from  my  custom  in  this  case." 

Whether  or  not  Moulton  deliberately  produced 
such  an  impression,  Walt  went  out  with  the  case 
against  De  Hohenfels  proved  to  his  own  satisfac 
tion.  It  made  him  angry  that  a  man  small  enough 
to  use  such  a  weapon  should,  as  a  matter  of  course, 


166  THE    CHASM 

be  constantly  at  dinners,  theaters,  and  in  drawing- 
rooms  with  Marion,  while  he,  a  decent  man,  was, 
equally  as  a  matter  of  course,  spading  the  garden  and 
eating  with  the  foreigner's  valet. 

At  the  sound  of  Walt's  footsteps  leaving  Mr. 
Moulton's  study,  De  Hohenfels,  waiting  for  Marion 
to  come  down,  looked  out  the  door  of  the  library. 
Walt  saw  him  and  stopped. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Bradfield,"  said  De  Hohen 
fels.  "It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  to  meet  you — in 
the  house." 

There  was  a  footstep  and  rustle  on  the  stairs  be 
hind  Walt,  but  he  had  no  eyes  or  ears  just  then  for 
anything  but  De  Hohenfels.  "I'm  here,"  he  said, 
"because  some  informer  has  really  done  his  dirty 
work  about  my  speech  last  night.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  I  think  it  was  you." 

"You  think  wrong,"  said  De  Hohenfels  coldly.' 
"If  Mr.  Moulton  has  discharged  you  he  is  well  rid 
of  an  insolent  servant." 

"Not  like  that,  Feodor!"  exclaimed  Marion, 
speaking  from  the  stairs.  She  came  down  as  quickly 
as  her  trailing  gown,  which  she  held  through  an  open 
ing  in  her  opera  cloak,  would  permit.  "Mr.  Brad- 
field,  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  make  an  accus 
ation  like  that.  What  earthly  reason  have  you  for 
saying  such  a  thing?" 

"This  morning  you  heard  Count  Hohenfels  try 
to  scare  me  with  a  veiled  threat  that  he  would  tell 
Mr.  Moulton  about  my  speech.  This  afternoon  he 
came  in  from  downtown  with  Mr.  Moulton.  They 
both  looked  at  me,  exchanged  some  remark,  and 
went  into  the  house  together.  This  evening  Mr. 


THE    CHASM  167 

Moulton  calls  me  up,  and  tells  me  to  drop  my  speak 
ing  or  my  job.  He  refers  to  my  'perfervid  rhetoric' 
— a  stilted  phrase  that  has  a  peculiarly  Hohenfelsian 
sound." 

"Be  careful  how  you  use  that  name,  young  man!" 
said  De  Hohenfels. 

Walt  laughed. 

"Feodor,"  said  Marion,  impressed  by  Walt's 
statement  of  the  case,  "this  isn't  so,  is  it?" 

"It  is  not.  Mr.  Bradfield  and  his  speech  are  not 
of  so  much  importance  as  he  imagines.  I  have  not 
been  thinking  of  it  or  of  him." 

Mr.  Moulton  came  to  the  door  of  his  study,  evi 
dently  very  much  interested  in  the  conversation, 
which  was  not  being  carried  on  in  low  tones.  It 
happened  that  Marion  did  not  see  her  father,  though 
both  Bradfield  and  Hohenfels  did.  "Is  that  enough 
for  you,  Mr.  Bradfield?"  she  demanded. 

Walt  was  a  little  shaken  by  the  Russian's  expres 
sion  when  he  saw  Moulton.  He  did  not  look  like  a 
man  caught  in  a  lie.  "I  asked  Mr.  Moulton  if  his 
informant  was  De  Hohenfels,"  said  Walt,  "and  in 
stead  of  denying  it  he  very  plainly  evaded  the  ques 
tion." 

"You  were  somewhat  hasty  in  your  conclusion, 
Mr.  Bradfield,"  said  Moulton  suavely.  Marion 
looked  at  her  father.  "Since  there  appears  to  be 
need  for  it,  I  will  state  for  Mr.  Bradfield's  benefit 
that  my  informant  was  a  private  detective  employed 
here  in  Moline  to  keep  an  eye  on  labor  agitators." 

"Of  course!"  said  Marion  to  Walt.  In  her  eyes 
was  a  world  of  reproach  and  disappointment. 

"That  gives  me  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Walt.    He 


168  THE     CHASM 

turned  to  Mr.  Moulton.  "I  wish  you  had  had  the 
fairness  to  say  that  five  minutes  ago  when  you  were 
asking  me  to  be  perfectly  aboveboard!" 

"I  think  we  needn't  wait  for  your  next  speech  to 
sever  our  present  relations,"  said  Mr.  Moulton. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  Bradfield. 

"Shall  we  go,  Fedya?"  said  Marion.  She  turned 
and  went  toward  the  door.  De  Hohenfels  bowed 
to  Bradfield,  and  followed  her,  but  his  silent  irony 
was  lost  on  Walt,  for  all  that  Walt  could  see  was 
Marion  in  her  beauty  and  her  splendor  disappearing 
from  his  life. 


PART    TWO 


PART   II 

RUSSIA 
I 

MARION  felt  it  deeply  when  she  found  she 
would  not  see  Bradfield  again  before  her 
wedding.  He  had  left  Hillcrest  the  night 
of  his  discharge.  Another  interview  with  him  might 
be  hard,  but  she  felt  she  ought  not  to  let  all  the 
splendid  threads  between  them  tear  apart — with  no 
effort  to  save  and  bind  them  into  an  enduring  friend 
ship.  There  were  things  in  Bradfield  she  needed — 
things  she  felt  she  would  not  soon  find  elsewhere. 
She  wanted  to  make  him  feel  better  about  that  un 
fortunate  mistake  of  his — to  admit  that  her  father 
had  not  been  fair — to  keep  the  thought  of  that 
last  scene  from  clouding  his  whole  memory  of  her. 
But  somehow,  for  several  days  her  time  was  so 
crowded — and  she  did  not  know  just  where  to  reach 
him,  and  when  she  finally  found  out  his  address  she 
found  out  also  that  he  had  gone  to  Chicago  in  search 
of  employment.  It  was  too  late. 

The  wedding  was  hastened  by  a  telegram  from 
Zhergan  in  Courland,  forwarded  by  cablegram  from 
Rome,  announcing  the  election  of  De  Hohenfels. 

171 


172  THE     CHASM 

The  Duma  was  to  assemble  in  St.  Petersburg  by  the 
end  of  April,  and  it  was  necessary  for  Marion  and 
Feodor  to  spend  at  least  a  few  days  in  Rome.  At 
the  wedding  reception  the  ladies  of  the  three  cities 
read  approvingly  the  cablegrams  from  Russian  rela 
tives,  aristocrats,  and  dignitaries,  and  feasted  their 
wealth-loving  imaginations  on  rumors  of  princely 
gifts — title-deeds  to  ancestral  estates  in  the  Baltic 
Government  of  Courland,  stock  in  the  Moscow-Kieff- 
Vorones  Railroad.  They  debated  in  low  voices 
whether  these  unlooked-for  accompaniments  of  the 
international  marriage  could  be  worth  as  much  as 
that  cool  million  represented  by  a  single  entry  on  a 
certain  stock-book  and  a  single  ornate  piece  of  paper 
certifying  that  "Marion,  Countess  de  Hohenfels,  is 
the  owner  of  10,000  shares  of  the  capital  stock  of 
the  United  States  Plow  Company." 

For,  of  course,  Dave  Moulton,  finding  the  pair 
could  do  very  well  without  his  financial  assistance, 
gave  it  to  them. 

Ignoring  popular  superstition,  Count  Feodor  and 
his  new  Countess  sailed  on  the  Moltke  for  Genoa 
on  Friday  the  I3th  of  April,  and  arrived  with 
out  mishap  at  Rome.  They  were  received  by  Feo- 
dor's  mother  and  her  brother,  Prince  Razinsky,  who 
was  some  sort  of  dignitary  at  the  Vatican.  He  ad 
vised  Marion  to  join  the  Greek  Church  in  Russia  on 
the  ground  of  good  form,  smiled  at  the  idea  that 
one's  private  convictions  should  have  anything  to 
do  with  such  a  matter,  and  assured  her  that  Feodor's 
failure  to  conform  had  hurt  him  in  St.  Petersburg, 
and  would  continue  to  do  so. 

The  Countess  Xenia  was  glad  to  see  her  son  de- 


THE    CHASM  173 

voted  to  such  solid  subjects  as  economics  and  politics. 
He  had  armed  himself  in  New  York  with  works  he 
thought  would  be  advantageous  to  him  in  the  com 
ing  debates  in  the  Duma.  He  and  Marion  had 
studied  together  in  their  room-like  cabin  on  ship 
board,  but  the  lessons  she  made  him  give  her  in 
Russian  pronunciation  were  so  much  more  personal 
and  delightful,  so  much  more  conducive  to  kisses  as 
they  watched  each  other's  lips  pronouncing  words, 
that  they  did  not  go  very  deeply  into  the  "dismal 
science,"  as  they  still  called  it.  At  that  time  he 
thought  her  as  fascinating  as  the  Duchess  di  Calli- 
gnano,  with  whom  in  Rome  two  years  before  he  had 
had  a  sumptuous  amour. 

In  Rome,  gay  with  Easter  and  with  spring,  the 
Count  and  Countess  did  not  receive  formally,  nor 
drive  on  the  Pincio,  nor  appear  at  the  Del  Valle 
Theater,  and  saw  only  a  few  of  their  intimate 
friends.  Marion  sub-let  her  rented  palazzo,  and 
arranged  other  things  left  at  loose  ends. 

Feodor  translated  letters  from  Ilyitch  Kronberg, 
describing  the  Zhergan  election.  Kronberg,  who 
leased  a  brickfield  from  De  Hohenfels,  hoped  his 
landlord  would  accept  his  services  as  political  man 
ager  in  place  of  certain  cash.  The  manager  had 
been  unable  to  learn  whether  his  candidate  was  Con 
servative,  Octoberist,  or  Constitutional  Democrat, 
but  Baron  Medin  of  a  neighboring  estate  having 
come  out  as  a  government  candidate,  the  resource 
ful  Kronberg  put  up  his  man  under  the  non-commit 
tal  name  of  Progressive,  and  that  was  enough  for 
the  people.  They  elected  De  Hohenfels  because 
they  hated  the  Government. 


174.  THE    CHASM 

The  Socialists  had  expressed  their  opinion  of  the 
Tsar's  Duma  by  voting  for  August  Rumpe's  cow. 
Count  Feodor  was  not  flattered  to  find  he  had 
beaten  that  political  antagonist  by  only  a  few  votes, 
and  Baron  Medin  was  furious.  The  vote  for  the 
cow  was  duly  included  in  Kronberg's  report.  Marion 
laughed  and  said  she  would  like  to  know  these  vil 
lagers  of  Zhergan.  Fedya  explained  that  there  had 
been  disturbances.  Seventy-five  thousand  troops  had 
forced  out  the  popular  revolutionary  officials  in 
Courland  and  re-established  the  government  of  the 
Tsar,  and  the  country  was  now  theoretically  paci 
fied.  If  it  proved  to  be  so  in  fact,  they  could  go 
there  when  the  summer  became  too  unpleasant  in  St. 
Petersburg. 

On  the  2d  of  May,  the  Count  and  Countess 
started  for  St.  Petersburg  via  Berlin.  The  Duma 
was  to  open  April  27th.  On  May  4th  they  had  their 
morning  coffee  on  the  Nord  Express  in  the  suburbs 
of  Berlin,  rode  all  day  through  agricultural  Ger 
many,  crossed  the  frontier  at  Eydtkuhnen,  full  of 
German  uniforms  and  surrounded  by  broad  low  for 
tifications,  and  reached  the  Customs  Hall  at  Vierz- 
bolovo  after  dark  on  Friday,  April  2ist.  Marion 
informed  Fedya  that  since  their  wedding  was  on 
April  loth  they  had  been  married  only  eleven  days. 
Fedya  thereupon  gallantly  forgave  the  Orthodox 
Church  its  antiquated  calendar  for  the  sake  of  the 
thirteen  days  it  added  to  their  honeymoon. 

The  ex-American's  passport  was  registered  and 
stamped  with  a  notice  that  she  could  not  leave  Rus 
sia  without  a  police  permit,  or  if  her  stay  exceeded 


THE    CHASM  175 

six  months,  without  a  Russian  passport.  It  did  not 
seem  possible  that  these  facts  could  ever  become 
important  to  her. 

Leaving  the  frontier  in  a  wide,  mahogany-pan 
eled  railway  carriage  lighted  by  scores  of  wax- 
candles,  they  were  served  with  glasses  of  tea  and 
vodka  by  uniformed,  dignified  servants  whose  grav 
ity  was  intentionally  upset  by  the  Countess  practising 
her  Russian  upon  them.  All  the  night,  with  the  red 
wood-sparks  from  the  locomotive  flying  past  the 
windows  in  the  darkness,  the  train  pushed  into  the 
unseen.  In  the  weirdness  of  dawn  the  bride  looked 
out  upon  a  moorland  of  endless  heather.  Later  she 
saw  tracts  of  silver  birches,  patches  of  oats,  Scotch 
firs,  and  occasionally  little  gray  wood-shingled  izbas 
— huts  not  to  be  distinguished  from  stables — the 
homes  of  Polish  peasants.  Them  she  saw  at  stations 
standing  amid  acres  of  wood  cut  and  piled  for  loco 
motive  fuel.  They  wore  sackcloth  or  sheepskins; 
their  shoes  were  of  rope  wound  round  their  feet; 
they  had  unkempt  hair,  flat  features,  mournful  eyes 
— a  sad,  careworn,  hungry-looking  people. 

On  the  wooded  banks  of  a  river  they  came  in 
sight  of  st'  eples  and  gilded  cupolas,  red-tiled  roofs, 
and  the  gi'iy  walls  of  a  fortress.  From  the  station 
they  looked  up  the  narrow  dirty  streets  of  the  city 
of  Vilna,  where  palaces  of  Polish  nobles  stood  side 
by  side  with  arched  gateways  leading  into  dreadful 
courts  formed  by  blistered,  rotting  walls  that  hid  the 
dens  and  cellars  of  the  Jewish  poor.  On  the  plat 
form  moved  Jews  with  quick,  cunning  eyes,  greasy 
black  curls,  brass  ear-rings  and  long  kaftans.  Two 


176  THE     CHASM 

pretty,  fair-haired  girls  in  red  blouses  giggled  and 
flirted  with  three  or  four  soldiers  in  white  caps 
and  tunics. 

After  luncheon  they  passed,  at  Gatchina,  a  summer 
palace  of  the  imperial  family.  Truck  farms  and 
villages  became  numerous,  and  then  they  saw  far- 
off  towers  and  clustered  domes  of  white  and  gold  and 
green  and  blue.  St.  Petersburg  rose  somewhat  un 
impressively  from  the  flat  Ingrian  plain. 

When  they  pulled  into  the  great,  plain,  lead-col 
ored  station,  the  Count  and  Countess,  instead  of 
joining  the  crowd  pouring  from  the  train,  remained 
in  their  railway  carriage  while  Fedya's  valet  went  to 
locate  a  certain  coachman.  A  liveried  chauffeur,  di 
rected  by  a  train-guard,  came  to  their  carriage,  and 
respectfully  addressed  the  Count.  De  Hohenfels 
shook  his  head  and  dismissed  the  man  with  a  curt 
message  in  Russian. 

"My  sister  wants  us  to  come  to  her  house,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Marion.  "I  can't  stand  her  husband,  M. 
Kokoreff.  He's  Assistant  Minister  of  the  Interior. 
His  father  kept  a  vodka-shop  and  became  a  million 
aire  collecting,  or  rather  not  collecting,  the  revenue 
on  vodka.  You'd  think  now  that  this  Monsieur  Ko 
koreff,  who  has  quadrupled  the  paternal  millions  by 
lending  wheat  and  money  to  peasants  at  one  hundred 
and  fifty  per  cent.,  was  the  only  simon-pure  patrician 
in  Russia.  He  is  insatiable.  He  throws  government 
favor  to  a  certain  bank,  and  they  give  him  bank- 
stock;  he  secures  exemption  from  taxation  for  an  in 
dustrial  company — and  becomes  a  stock-holder." 

"Was  it  money  she  married  him  for?"  asked  Mar 
ion. 


THE     CHASM  177 

"And  power.  He  stands  high  with  the  administra 
tive  clique — the  lick-spittle!" 

Marion  shuddered,  remembering  her  talk  with 
her  father  about  power.  "Will  you  go  to  see  your 
sister?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I'll  see  her.  She'll  call  on  you.  If  you  will 
be  good  enough  to  return  her  first  visit — after  that 
we  can  drop  the  Kokoreffs." 

In  the  line  of  droshkies  in  the  station  yard  De  Ho- 
henfels's  valet  located  a  big  coachman  in  a  padded 
gown  of  dark  blue  drawn  in  by  a  narrow  silk  waist- 
belt.  Feodor  assisted  Marion  into  a  dark  blue 
droshky  drawn  by  a  troika  of  black  Orloffs,  and  they 
drove  down  the  league-long,  crowded  Nevsky  Pros 
pect  toward  the  gilded  spire  of  the  Admiralty  Build 
ing.  They  passed  the  Annitshkoff  palace  and  the 
four  bronze  horse-tamers  at  the  ends  of  the  granite 
bridge  over  the  Fontanka  Canal — half  full  of  broken 
blocks  of  ice  confined  between  massive  granite  quays. 
The  American  had  a  glimpse  of  Admiralty  Square — 
a  mile  long,  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  surrounded  by 
immense  palaces,  churches,  and  administrative  build 
ings. 

They  took  a  suite  at  the  Hotel  d'Europe,  hiring 
their  own  maids  and  lackeys,  butler  and  coachman, 
and  took  part  in  the  post-Easter  festivities  of  the 
capital.  Soon  after  their  arrival  they  were  enter 
tained  at  the  American  Embassy,  and  were  included 
in  an  informal  reception — only  two  hundred  guests, 
and  court  costume  not  required — at  the  Winter  Pal 
ace,  the  lodging  of  six  thousand  of  the  Tsar's  re 
tainers. 

Until  that  very  week,  the  Tsar  had  not  been  in 


178  THE    CHASM 

St.  Petersburg  for  fifteen  months — not  since  Bloody 
Sunday,  when  masses  of  shivering,  half-famished 
workingmen,  still  retaining  faith  in  the  "Little 
Father,"  paid  for  their  faith  with  their  lives  on  the 
stones  of  Admiralty  Square,  and  dying  beneath  the 
bullets  of  the  "Little  Father's"  soldiers,  quenched 
forever  with  their  blood  the  old  futile  faith  of  Rus 
sia,  and  began  the  revolution. 

The  Tsar's  guests  at  the  small  reception  were 
mostly  of  a  class  seldom  seen  in  those  large  pink  and 
white  halls  enameled  in  imitation  of  marble.  There 
were  men  of  letters,  savants,  professional  men,  many 
of  them  members  of  the  Cadet  or  Constitutional 
Democrat  party  of  the  Duma  which  was  to  assemble 
on  the  following  day.  Very  likely  the  Tsar  thought 
a  taste  of  the  imperial  hospitality  would  tend  to  take 
the  edge  off  their  opposition  to  his  government. 

Marion  met  half  a  dozen  people  of  note — a 
famous  orator  and  his  wife,  the  editor  of  the  chief 
organ  of  the  constitutional  democrats,  the  univer 
sity  professor  who  had  organized  the  influential 
Union  of  Unions,  his  wife,  the  leader  of  the  Russian 
woman  suffragists,  a  celebrated  old  chemist  and  his 
daughter,  the  Minister  of  Ways  of  Communication 
— Prince  and  civil  engineer,  and  a  rising  novelist,  not 
yet  significant  or  outspoken  enough  to  be  banished 
from  St.  Petersburg. 

When  the  new  Countess  was  presented  to  the 
Tsaritsa,  a  woman  with  large  features,  waist  too 
obviously  laced,  and  a  habit  of  looking  at  the  floor 
when  talking  with  anyone,  the  imperial  lady  asked 
her  a  perfunctory  question  about  the  higher  educa 
tion  of  women  in  the  United  States.  The  Countess's 


THE     CHASM  179 

answer  led  to  a  less  perfunctory  question  about  Vas- 
sar,  and  the  next  moment  the  American  was  called 
upon  to  defend  her  belief  that  the  spirit  of  a  place 
could  be  at  once  exclusive  and  democratic. 

"Democratic!"  sniffed  a  lady  of  honor,  as  though 
the  word  were  a  bad  odor. 

But  people  so  seldom  expressed  an  opinion  differ 
ent  from  that  of  the  Empress  that  she  found  it  rather 
refreshing — at  least  in  an  American.  She  encour 
aged  Marion  to  tell  of  her  own  little  group  of  ten 
"spirits"  at  Vassar — from  which  the  non-congenial 
were  excluded  by  mere  natural  lack  of  affinity,  and 
in  which  the  congenial  were  not  excluded  by  any  ques 
tion  of  birth  or  wealth.  The  Vassarite  told  how  she 
had  brought  a  neighboring  patriarchal  nature-lover, 
and  man  of  letters  down  from  the  seclusion  of  his 
hills  to  the  frivolity  of  a  dress-suit  and  an  April  hop. 
"He  was  the  center  of  attraction,"  said  Marion, 
"and  in  his  droll,  quiet,  keen  way  the  gayest  of  the 
gay.  The  girls  filled  up  his  dance  program  till  he 
had  to  'split'  dances,  quarreled  over  his  'cutting' 
a  dance,  and  made  such  a  fuss  over  him  that  the 
youngsters  from  Yale  and  Harvard  were  quite 
eclipsed.  One  disconsolate  said  he  was  going  to  give 
up  football,  study  the  spots  on  birds'  eggs,  and  grow 
a  white  beard." 

Liking  Marion's  way  of  talking  to  her  as  though 
she  were  a  human  being,  the  Tsaritsa  considered  the 
desirability  of  having  the  fresh  and  honest  mind  of 
this  young  woman  in  her  entourage.  Then  remem 
bering  something  she  had  heard,  she  asked  whether 
the  Count  de  Hohenfels  was  still  inclined  to  be  in 
transigent  in  his  attitude  toward  the  Church. 


180  THE     CHASM 

Upon  the  American's  unsatisfactory  answer,  the 
Tsaritsa  sighed  and  "conged"  her — not  so  cordially 
as  the  tone  of  the  rest  of  their  conversation  would 
have  warranted.  So  Marion  lost  her  chance  of  be 
coming  an  intimate  of  the  Tsaritsa — a  lady  of  honor 
in  the  hardened  and  cynical  circle  of  the  Russian 
court. 

The  next  day,  before  the  opening  of  the  Duma, 
Count  Feodor  had  a  college  friend  at  luncheon,  a 
M.  Hertzenstein,  who  was  a  fine,  scholarly  man, 
somewhat  devoid  of  humor,  but  an  authority  on 
agrarian  questions,  and  well-informed  as  to  the 
programs  and  tendencies  of  the  various  parties 
among  the  deputies.  Marion  saw  how  much  valuable 
information  Fedya  was  acquiring  with  small  expendi 
ture  of  labor.  They  discussed  particularly  the  prob 
able  demands  of  the  Labor  Group.  Hertzenstein 
said  the  muzhiks  undoubtedly  had  to  have  more  land, 
and  pointed  out  that  they  could  not  buy  it  because 
existing  prices  and  methods  of  farming  left  most  of 
them  in  arrears  for  taxes  at  the  end  of  every  year. 
They  talked  of  the  self-educated  Kurneen,  a  clerk  in 
the  Moscow  branch  of  the  Standard  Oil  Company, 
who  had  displayed  such  sanity,  tact,  and  skill  in  or 
ganization  that  he  had  enrolled  over  a  million  in  his 
Peasants'  Union  with  seven  or  eight  million  sym 
pathizers. 

"How  this  would  interest  Walt!"  thought  Mar 
ion.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  send  a  letter  to  his 
Moline  address  telling  him  of  Russia — and  the 
things  she  had  wanted  to  say  to  him  before  she  left. 

She  had  to  resign  herself  to  staying  home  inactive 
while  Feodor  and  Hertzenstein  departed  for  the 


THE    CHASM  181 

Winter  Palace  to  take  part  in  the  formal  opening  of 
Russia's  first  Parliament. 

The  men  found  twenty  thousand  motionless  white- 
tuniced  soldiers  of  the  Tsar  massed  about  the  palace. 

Inside,  they  found  the  deputies  assembled  on  the 
left  of  the  throne  room,  everyone  standing,  the 
black  frock-coats  of  professional  men  and  country 
gentlemen  mingling  with  the  dark  gray  cloaks  of 
brown-faced,  bearded  peasants.  The  black-coated 
men  talked  in  low,  serious  tones;  the  men  in  cloaks 
talked  little,  but  watched  everything  with  earnest, 
questioning  eyes. 

Up  the  middle  of  the  hall  to  the  throne  ran  a  nar 
row  lane  left  for  the  Tsar  and  his  cortege,  and  on 
the  right  of  the  hall,  beyond  that  social  chasm,  was  a 
throng  of  men  in  scarlet  coats  and  gold  braid,  their 
breasts  covered  with  jeweled  stars  and  medals  and 
crosses — honorary  generals  and  admirals,  councilors 
of  state,  ministers,  senators,  heads  of  administrative 
departments — among  them  many  a  flabby  face  and 
watery  eye  and  sensual  mouth.  There  was  laughter 
among  them — the  laughter  of  arrogant  power,  as 
they  exchanged  loud  flippancies  calculated  to  show 
that  they,  the  inmost  circle  of  the  great  bureaucracy, 
were  no  whit  disturbed  by  all  the  revolutionary  activ 
ity  which  had  finally  forced  the  Tsar  into  this  farce 
of  popular  government.  There  was  close  relationship 
between  the  motionless,  white-tuniced,  still  obedient 
masses  of  peasants  and  workingmen  alined  as  sol 
diers  outside  the  walls  and  the  insolent  mirth  of  the 
rulers  of  Russia  within. 

De  Hohenfels  flushed  as  he  looked  at  the  two  par 
ties  and  took  his  place  among  the  people's  deputies. 


182  THE    CHASM 

There  were  not  six  men  of  his  wealth  and  rank  in 
the  whole  Duma.  What  was  he  doing  there  among 
peasants?  He  caught  sight  of  Kokoreff  with  his 
monocle  and  his  superior  stare  directed  across  the 
chasm;  and  Kokoreff,  the  grafting  sycophant,  the 
son  of  a  brandy-seller,  gave  him  a  commiserating 
smile.  De  Hohenfels  felt  it  a  shame  to  him  to  re 
linquish  power  in  Russia  to  such  hands  as  Kokoreff's. 
And  yet,  to  pay  the  price  for  power  that  Kokoreff 
paid  would  be  more  shame ! 

On  the  other  hand  the  Duma,  the  people — whose 
function  it  was  to  be  fleeced — what  part  had  he  with 
them?  He  felt  himself  to  be  in  the  old  inconsistent 
position  of  his  father — that  position  forced  upon 
him  from  the  grave.  Being  in  that  hall  at  all,  he  was 
doomed  to  the  paternal  teterboard,  between  official 
goatdom  on  his  right  and  popular  sheepdom  on  his 
left.  It  seemed  to  put  his  esthetic  immoralism  out 
of  joint.  He  had  the  pain  of  a  man  with  an  ideal 
which  does  not  fit  the  facts.  With  his  philosophy  he 
had  no  logical  ground  for  despising  the  scarlet- 
coated  hogs  and  hypocrites  of  the  bureaucracy.  They 
were  the  actual  "Overmen"  of  Russia,  but  not  ex 
actly  "arrows  of  longing"  toward  a  higher  race. 

There  was  a  blare  of  trumpets.  The  Tsar  en 
tered,  accompanied  by  gorgeous  court  chamberlains 
and  popes.  They  walked  solemnly  down  the  narrow 
lane,  and  reaching  the  throne,  went  through  an 
elaborate  religious  ceremony.  The  insignificance  of 
all  ritual  was  made  more  glaring  here  by  the  men 
tally  made  contrast  with  the  significant  words  which 
should  have  been  spoken.  After  fifteen  months  of 
revolution  had  shaken  Russia,  ritual  was  all  the  Tsar 


THE     CHASM  183 

had  to  lay  before  those  thinking  university  men,  law 
yers,  civil  engineers,  and  toilers.  After  the  weari 
some  ceremony,  the  Tsar  read  his  three-minute 
speech  from  the  throne.  Presumably  lest  he  should 
forget  it,  he  had  carefully  written  down  the  state 
ment  that  he  loved  his  people  and  trusted  in  God. 
That  was  all.  Not  a  word  that  meant  anything — 
nothing  about  the  land  needed  by  the  peasants — 
nothing  about  amnesty  for  men  still  held  in  prison 
for  criminal  beliefs  such  as  that  Russia  should  have 
a  Duma,  an  uncensored  press,  and  freedom  of 
speech. 

"The  kind-hearted  Tsar  loves  his  people,"  said 
De  Hohenfels  softly  to  Hertzenstein,  "but  he  has  a 
little  way  of  expressing  his  affection  with  rifle-bullets, 
and  this  causes  him  to  be  cruelly  misunderstood.  It 
is  very  touching — these  lonely  sorrows  of  the  great !" 

"May  God  bless  Me  and  you !"  said  the  Tsar,  end 
ing  his  weighty  suggestions  to  his  Parliament. 

Officialdom  cheered  the  wise  words  of  the  Ruler. 

The  Duma  clapped  no  hand,  raised  no  voice,  mur 
mured  no  approving  word. 

"Good  for  the  Duma!"  said  De  Hohenfels,  tak 
ing  in  the  expression  of  as  many  faces  as  he  could 
see.  Their  silence  drew  his  sympathy  as  much  as 
the  noise  of  the  claqueurs  in  scarlet  repelled  it. 

The  Tsar  marched  majestically  down  the  lane  and 
out,  followed  by  officialdom.  The  deputies  filed  out 
in  sullen  silence,  and  went  on  board  the  steamer 
which  was  to  take  them  to  the  Tauride  Palace.  On 
the  way  up  the  Neva  they  passed  beneath  the  walls  of 
the  Central  Prison.  From  many  a  window  waved 
the  hands  of  men  and  women  whose  agitation 


184.  THE     CHASM 

through  the  years  had  made  the  Duma  possible. 
Their  cheers  rang  out  between  the  stone  walls  and 
the  boat. 

And  so,  sneered  at  by  the  bureaucrats,  treated  as 
meaningless  by  the  Tsar,  cheered  by  the  prisoners, 
opened  Russia's  first  Parliament. 

Telling  Marion  about  it  at  dinner,  De  Hohenfels 
repeated  the  epigram  he  had  made  about  the  Tsar, 
and  described  the  first  session  in  the  Tauride  Palace 
where  the  President,  Muromsev,  had  appointed  a 
committee  representing  all  parties  to  frame  a  reply 
to  the  "God  bless  us"  throne  speech. 

"The  Duma  is  composed  of  abler  men  than  the 
bureaucracy,"  said  Count  Feodor.  "It  is  not  in  na 
ture  that  men  so  stupid  should  rule  the  world  for 
ever.  With  the  revolutionary  nation  behind  it  there 
is  a  possibility  that  the  now  legally  powerless  Duma 
will  repeat  the  course  of  the  States-General  under  the 
French  monarchy  and  take  the  whole  power  of  the 
state  into  its  own  hands." 

"Wouldn't  that  be  splendid!"  cried  Marion. 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  The  trouble  is — a  movement 
like  that  once  started  doesn't  know  where  to  stop." 

"Do  you  mean  they  may  go  on  to  socialism?" 

"Yes.  Not  that  these  deputies  are  socialists — con 
sciously.  But  it's  in  the  air.  Things  drift  that  way. 
For  instance  these  peasants — eight  or  ten  million  of 
them — calmly  proposing  to  expropriate  the  land  for 
themselves !  They  think  all  they  have  to  do  is  state 
their  case  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  will  agree 
with  them  that  the  use  of  the  land  is  a  natural  right 
which  we  landlords  have  cheated  them  out  of!  The 
Cadets  with  forty  per  cent,  of  the  deputies  against 


THE     CHASM  185 

the  Peasants'  thirty-five  will  insist  on  their  paying 
for  the  land,  but  even  at  that — !  We  don't  want  to 
sell.  Why  can't  they  limit  their  demand  to  the  ex 
propriation  of  the  Crown  land?" 

Having  taken  a  box  for  the  remainder  of  the 
season,  they  went  to  the  opera  that  evening.  It  was 
a  resplendent  audience;  and  Marion  could  see  she 
was  an  object  of  particular  interest  to  many  occu 
pants  of  the  boxes.  The  book  of  the  piece — "Life 
for  the  Tsar" — was  irritating  to  Fedya  by  reason  of 
its  antiquated  patriotic  clap-trap;  and  his  humor 
was  not  improved  by  the  visit  of  M.  Kokoreff  after 
the  first  act.  He  went  to  the  Kokoreff  box  to  see  his 
sister  Vanya.  There  he  had  to  listen  to  her  re 
proaches  for  his  neglect  of  her,  and  found  no  way  to 
avoid  accepting  an  invitation  to  a  dinner  she  was  de 
termined  to  give  for  him  and  his  bride.  The  As 
sistant  Minister  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable  to 
Marion,  telling  her  her  appearance  was  making  a 
most  favorable  impression,  and  that  everyone  was 
talking  of  the  high  opinion  the  Tsaritsa  had  ex 
pressed  of  the  new  American  Countess.  Kokoreff  had 
never  expected  his  brother-in-law,  devoid  of  official 
influence,  to  accomplish  any  such  master-stroke  as  a 
marriage  with  a  sixty  million  rouble  American  in 
dustry. 

After  the  second  act,  Fedya  came  back  bubbling  at 
a  meeting  with  two  of  his  old  companions  of  the 
Jockey  Club,  whom  he  introduced.  They  were  whole- 
souled,  good-natured  fellows,  popular  in  St.  Peters 
burg,  laughing  heartily  over  things  that  were  not 
very  funny.  They  said  "thou"  to  De  Hohenfels,  he 
called  them  Mitya  and  Volodya,  and  decided  that 


186  THE     CHASM 

what  he  needed  was  the  old  care-free,  unthinking 
companionship  of  men.  He  had  been  narrowing  him 
self  too  exclusively  to  the  society  of  one  woman. 

Marion  liked  these  well-fed,  happy  animals,  but 
when  the  four  went  after  the  opera  to  "The  Bear," 
the  most  swagger  of  the  big  Petersburg  cafes,  she 
knew  the  three  men  would  have  had  a  better  time 
without  her.  The  need  of  women  friends  came  over 
her  keenly.  That  night  in  the  darkness  she  felt 
the  immensity  of  Russia — stretching  eastward  one 
quarter  of  the  way  around  the  world — so  far  that 
in  order  to  look  straight  toward  Vladivostok  she 
must  look  down  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  in 
to  the  earth.  And  in  all  that  immensity  not  one  girl 
or  woman  who  cared  for  her!  She  cried  with  loneli 
ness  and  homesickness. 

When  Fedya  had  gone  next  afternoon  to  the  Tau- 
ride  Palace,  and  his  sister  Vanya  came  to  call,  Mar 
ion  disregarded  his  desire  not  to  become  intimate 
with  the  Kokoreffs  and  received  Vanya  as  a  sister 
indeed,  and  one  in  need.  Unfortunately,  with  the 
best  will  in  the  world,  Madame  Kokoreff  and  the 
Countess  Marion  found  little  in  common.  The  Rus 
sian  lady  cared  nothing  for  books,  pictures,  music,  or 
politics,  and  was  very  anxious  to  have  her  brother's 
wife  come  under  the  influence  of  Father  John  of 
Kronstadt  in  order  that  he  might  instruct  her  in  the 
doctrines  of  the  Orthodox  Church.  Like  her  uncle 
Prince  Razinsky  she  laid  stress  on  the  social  advan 
tages  of  conformity,  though,  unlike  him,  she  would 
not  admit  that  as  her  only  reason  for  devotion.  So 
cial  advancement  being  in  her  mind  the  great  end  of 
existence,  it  seemed  to  her  criminal  and  suicidal  not 


THE     CHASM  187 

to  do  the  things  that  led  to  it.  Marion  saw,  unwill 
ingly,  before  Madame  Kokoreff  took  her  departure, 
that  Feodor's  sister  did  not  have  in  her  soul  either 
the  need  or  the  capacity  for  friendship. 

All  six  of  the  grandes  dames  Marion  met  at  Ma 
dame  Kokoreff's  dinner  were  dominated  by  the  same 
ideals.  Tchin,  official  rank,  not  so  much  for  its  own 
sake  as  for  the  standing  it  gave  one  in  society,  was  a 
passion  and  a  longing  that  left  no  room  in  them  for 
much  enthusiasm  for  anything  else.  Their  friend 
ships  were  calculated  accordingly.  Fedya  said  that 
was  true  only  of  "the  administrative  set";  but  after 
half  a  dozen  excursions  into  a  more  fashionable, 
frivolous,  and  wealth-displaying  crowd,  that  too 
proved  unalluring.  The  American  girl,  her  spiritual 
antenna?  out  and  active,  and  all  doors  at  that  time 
open  to  her,  failed,  during  their  ten  weeks'  stay  in 
the  capital,  to  find  in  all  its  high  society  one  genuine 
friend. 

The  critical  spirit,  though  it  did  her  husband  no 
harm  in  Rome,  and  would  have  helped  him  in  Paris, 
really  isolated  him,  she  began  to  see,  in  St.  Peters 
burg.  She  herself  at  that  time  shared  to  some  ex 
tent  his  spirit.  Bringing  together  in  her  mind  re 
marks  he  dropped  at  various  times,  she  found  that  De 
Hohenfels  scorned  the  Tsar  for  his  superstition  and 
his  pretense  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  terrible 
things  done  in  his  name,  the  bureaucrats  for  their 
sycophancy,  militarism  for  its  artificial  ranking  of 
natural  inferiors  above  natural  superiors,  the  gilded 
youth  of  St.  Petersburg  for  their  lack  of  esthetic  and 
intellectual  development,  the  scholars  of  the  univer 
sity  for  their  supineness,  atrophied  life-instincts,  and 


188  THE     CHASM 

ignorance  of  joy,  the  Christian  anarchists  for  their 
sentimentalism  and  their  unnatural  doctrine  of  non- 
resistance,  and  the  revolutionists  for  their  futile  sac 
rifice  of  self  for  the  abstraction  they  called  "the 
Cause."  Did  he  realize  that  he  was  in  accord  with 
no  one,  saying  yes  to  nothing  but  his  own  far-off, 
gigantic  dream  of  a  race  unborn? 


II. 

MARION'S  hope  of  a  political  career  for 
Fedya  ended  early — in  fact  on  the  third  day 
of  the  Duma,  when  the  committee  of  thirty- 
three  brought  in  its  reply  to  the  Tsar.  The  Cadets 
had  yielded  to  practically  the  entire  revolutionary 
program  of  the  meek  and  lowly  peasants,  demanding 
not  only  the  rights  of  free  speech,  press,  and  assem 
bly  promised  by  the  Tsar  in  his  October  manifesto, 
but  also  amnesty,  responsible  ministry,  universal 
suffrage,  the  abolition  of  the  upper  house,  and  ex 
propriation  of  all  property  in  land. 

The  Progressive  Party,  consisting  of  De  Hohen- 
fels,  had  hitherto  been  torn  by  internal  dissensions, 
but  now  its  sympathies  swung  abruptly  from  the 
center  to  the  extreme  right  of  the  Duma.  Even 
there  there  were  only  eleven  deputies  who  did  not 
endorse  the  committee's  reply  to  the  Tsar.  The  elev 
en,  including  De  Hohenfels,  left  the  Chamber,  and 
the  reply  was  adopted  unanimously.  After  refusing 
to  vote  for  the  reply  because  of  its  demand  for 
the  expropriation  of  land,  and  refusing  to  vote 
against  it  because  such  a  vote  would  be  a  vote  for  the 
Tsar,  De  Hohenfels  came  home  disgusted. 

On  that  day  the  Countess  saw  just  why  her  hus 
band's  inability  to  join  any  real  and  definite  move- 

189 


190  THE     CHASM 

ment  doomed  him  to  futility  in  the  Russia  of  their 
time.  He  was  neither  for  autocracy  nor  for  democ 
racy,  and  in  Russia  no  third  thing  was  possible.  She 
lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night  thinking  about  it. 
She  remembered  how  fine  she  had  once  thought  his 
idea  that  the  Russian  upper  class  should  "hold  the 
people  in  check,"  not  by  filling  their  heads  with  out 
worn  religious  superstition  and  hocus  pocus,  but  by 
sheer  strength  of  intellect  and  will — deriving  their 
power  not  from  subservience  to  an  autocrat  backed 
by  an  army,  but  from  their  own  individual  souls — 
the  natural  supremacy  of  the  finer  breed.  How  thin 
and  unreal  that  idea  appeared  in  contact  with  actual 
conditions ! 

She  tried  to  remember  just  what  Bradfield  had 
said  predicting  De  Hohenfels's  political  failure.  At 
the  time  she  had  attached  no  importance  to  his 
prophecy — it  seemed  such  a  snap  judgment,  based  on 
so  few  facts.  Apparently  Walt  had  grasped  their  real 
significance.  She  could  not  remount  to  the  exact 
ground  on  which  he  had  based  his  idea,  but  she 
knew  it  was  substantially  correct.  He  had  seen  at 
once  what  only  the  event  could  convince  her  of — 
that  Fedya's  position  as  an  anti-bureaucratic  wealthy 
landowner  prevented  his  alliance  with  either  of 
the  two  great  hostile  forces  of  Russian  life. 

She  did  not  yet  understand  her  own  satisfaction  in 
the  action  of  the  Duma.  To  feel  so  gave  her  a  sense 
of  disloyalty  to  Fedya's  interest,  but  she  could  not 
help  it.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  because  she  had 
grown  up  in  a  republic.  Perhaps  her  feeling  lay 
deeper  in  that  profound  discontent  which  had  arisen 
in  her  before  her  marriage  when  her  quarrel  with  her 


THE     CHASM  191 

father  made  her  feel  keenly  for  the  first  time  that  she 
was  of  necessity  a  dependent  human  being — her 
only  choice  being  dependence  on  father  or  husband. 
The  one  escape  from  that  lay  in  productive,  income- 
producing  work  of  her  own,  and  Bradfield  had 
warned  her  back  from  that  as  being  under  present 
conditions  a  degrading  slavery  of  toil,  the  fruits  of 
which  must  flow  to  other  hands.  It  was  probably  this 
in  her — the  approaching  revolt  of  the  Woman — 
which  gave  her  sympathy  with  that  other  world-re 
volt — of  the  Worker.  The  reply  of  the  Duma  to 
the  Tsar  was  one  of  its  thousand  voices. 

Fedya's  first  enthusiasm  as  a  teacher  of  Russian 
phonetics  having  waned,  Marion  hired  as  tutor  a 
student  of  philology  recommended  by  one  of  the 
university  lecturers.  Vasili  Pososhkov  was  a  pale 
shy  youth  with  spiritual  forehead,  bad  teeth,  and  an 
uncanny  facility  in  mastering  languages.  Through 
cold  and  hunger  and  poverty  in  St.  Petersburg  he 
clung  with  demonic  persistence  to  his  university 
career.  He  came  every  morning  at  eleven,  treated 
the  Countess  with  formality,  did  his  work  thoroughly 
and  without  enthusiasm,  and  she  had  set  him  down  as 
a  dry-as-dust  sort  of  person. 

One  day  they  finished  reading  Tolstoi's  Sunday- 
school  story  about  the  peasant  Ivan  Shcherbakof, 
entitled  "Neglect  a  Fire  and  It  Spreads." 

"And  if  anyone  ever  did  him  any  harm,  he  made 
no  attempt  to  retaliate,"  repeated  Vasili  Pososhkov, 
and  tossed  the  book  contemptuously  on  the  table. 
"What  supine  rot!"  He  spoke  defiantly.  "The  peas 
ants  have  had  about  enough  of  being  walked  on!" 
he  announced.  "Why  don't  you  read  Gorky  and  hear 


192  THE     CHASM 

the  voice  of  a  Russia  that  no  longer  intends  to  'turn 
the  other  cheek'  to  its  enslavers — the  Russia  that  is 
sick  of  letting  itself  be  harmed  without  retaliation  1" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Marion,  "I  intend  to 
read  Gorky.  In  fact  I  have  already  read  some  of  his 
things  in  English.  He  is  tremendous." 

"Then  how  can  you  stand  'Neglect  a  Fire'?" 

"I'm  learning  Russian." 

"If  you  understood  Gorky — I  wouldn't  read  that 
Tolstoi  rot  if  I  found  it  in  Chinese!" 

The  Countess  protested  her  innocence  of  the  crime 
of  endorsing  the  non-resistance  theory  of  Tolstoi's 
Christian  anarchism,  but  the  humdrum  Vasili  Pososh- 
kov  once  ablaze  could  not  be  quenched  until  he  had 
voiced  the  profound  and  passionate  faith  of  proleta 
rian  Russia  in  Gorky  and  the  coming  social  revolu 
tion — which  would  never  come  so  long  as  people 
were  so  morally  dense  as  not  to  be  ashamed  of  own 
ing  copies  of  "Neglect  a  Fire." 

"Vasili  Pososhkov,  have  you  a  sense  of  humor?" 

"No,  Madame  Countess.  There  has  been  nothing 
in  my  life  to  give  me  one." 

That  gave  Madame  Countess  a  thrill  of  insight 
into  the  youth's  life,  but  her  sympathy  did  not  deter 
her  from  delivering  the  message  she  had  for  him. 
"You  must  learn  to  laugh — especially  at  trifles.  If 
that  kind  and  brave  old  man  is  foolish — smile  at  him. 
Save  your  energy.  One  can  even  read  'Neglect  a 
Fire'  without  destroying  the  social  revolution.  To 
morrow  we  will  read  Gorky." 

Gorky  (Bitter)  gave  her  a  desire  to  see  the  life 
of  the  workers  of  St.  Petersburg.  The  first  saint's 
day  that  closed  the  University  and  the  factories  she 


THE     CHASM  193 

took  a  motor  car,  a  driver,  and  Vasili  Pososhkov, 
and  went  to  the  Vibourg  suburb.  They  traversed 
miles  of  slightly  sandy  driveways  winding  through 
the  greening  woods  and  budding  alder  thickets  of  the 
island  parks  of  Petersburg;  passing  villas,  palaces, 
gardens,  casinos;  skirting  granite  quays  of  the  Neva 
arms;  crossing  bridges  from  woodland  to  woodland 
of  silver  birch  and  solemn  fir;  sweeping  around  dim 
forest-mirroring  lakelets.  From  that  spacious  play 
ground  of  the  rich,  used  by  some  of  them  for  a  few 
weeks  of  the  year,  they  emerged  on  the  north  bank 
into  a  dismal  city  of  gaunt  factories,  packed  and  filthy 
tenements,  damp  cellars  below  the  river  level  where 
a  dozen  or  more  men,  women  and  children  lodged  in 
a  single  room.  Sometimes  that  room  was  flooded 
when  a  hard  wind  blew  a  certain  way  from  the  sea. 
Recognizing  the  responsibility  of  society  as  a  whole 
for  the  welfare  of  these  its  cellar-dwelling  members, 
the  authorities  met  it  by  having  a  cannon  fired  when 
the  flood  was  coming.  The  cellar-dwellers  were  ac 
cordingly  not  drowned,  but  merely  rendered  home 
less  till  the  waters  went  down  and  they  could  bail 
their  apartments. 

Vasili  Pososhkov  regretted  that  she  could  not  see 
those  warrens  of  the  poor  when  the  Arctic  circle 
spilled  its  cold  down  through  St.  Petersburg,  or  when 
the  summer  stench  arose  from  the  low  lagoons.  She 
heard  him  talk  with  the  maimed,  the  sick,  the  starv 
ing;  she  saw  men  dying  of  consumption  on  straw  pal 
lets  on  damp  and  sunless  floors,  a  lunatic  lodged 
in  a  room  among  young  children,  a  woman  raving — 
perhaps  in  typhoid — no  one  knew.  Vasili  Pososhkov, 
coldly  explaining  everything,  held  her  mind  to  grew- 


194  THE     CHASM 

some  details  that  bit  into  her  soul.  She  could  not 
stand  it.  She  grew  sick.  She  had  to  leave. 

"One  should  cultivate  a  sense  of  humor,"  said 
Vasili  Pososhkov. 

She  could  not  see  the  grim  humor  of  that. 

In  the  motor  car  again,  the  young  Russian  renewed 
his  attack. 

"Tolstoi  knows  these  conditions  and  wishes  to 
change  them,"  he  said,  "yet  he  is  so  darkened  by  his 
upperclass  mind  and  his  Christianity  that  he  has 
dared  to  call  economic  reform  nonsense,  and  to 
preach  resignation — blind  to  the  blazing  fact  that 
the  one  hope  of  the  world  lies  in  the  successful  rebel 
lion  of  the  class  that  is  now  pushed  down  into  that 
hell!" 

The  things  she  had  seen  were  working  too  deeply 
in  her  soul  to  permit  of  argument  then. 

On  the  way  back  across  the  spacious  islands  held 
netted  in  the  branching  Neva,  he  told  her  how  they, 
the  proletarians,  working  for  the  sake  of  their  own 
life,  and  not  for  other  people's  profits,  would  line  the 
woodland  drives  of  all  those  forty  islands  with  league 
on  league  of  neat  sweet  cottages,  cleaned  and  warmed 
and  lighted  by  the  power  of  the  rushing  waters. 

"I  hope  you  do  it  soon!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  or 
somebody.  All  I  fear  is — that  you  won't." 

That  started  him  on  the  real  weakness  of  the  class 
whose  power,  embodied  in  rifle  bullets,  maintained 
the  island  parks  and  the  Vibourg  suburb.  According 
to  him  their  intellects  were  atrophying.  Their  in 
comes  came  to  them  with  little  exertion  of  mind  or 
body.  Their  political  power  was  maintained  with 
little  more  mental  effort  than  it  took  to  command 


THE    CHASM  195 

"Fire!"  Justification  in  their  own  minds  for  the 
present  scheme  of  things  was  furnished  by  political 
economists,  editors,  philosophers,  novelists,  who 
"had  to  live"  and  therefore  wrote  and  taught  the 
things  that  led  them  upward  in  the  existing  social 
order.  He  pointed  out  the  inefficiency  of  the  mili 
tary  and  naval  officers  in  the  war,  instancing  the 
childish  panic  that  made  them  fire  on  the  English 
fishing  boats  in  the  North  Sea — taking  them  for 
Japanese  torpedo  boats  which  were  ten  thousand 
miles  away.  He  asked  her  to  read  a  few  state  papers 
of  the  leading  bureaucrats  for  proof  that  they  were 
not  masters  of  any  language.  "With  a  private  in 
come  of  sixty-six  million  roubles  a  year  and  the  Rus 
sian  army  the  Tsar  needs  no  brains — and  has  none  1" 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken  about  that,"  said  Mar 
ion.  "I  have  heard  he  is  not  so  ignorant  as  he  seems 
about  things  that  are  happening." 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  him,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Is  deliberate,  open-eyed  brutality  to  rule  us  forever? 
They  pride  themselves  on  strong  will-power.  It  is 
shown  chiefly  in  their  ability  to  overcome  the  'weak 
ness'  which  makes  an  'unhardened'  human  being 
loath  to  order  the  destruction  by  rifle  fire  of  a  crowd 
of  unarmed  men  and  women  coming  to  tell  their 
rulers  they  are  perishing  of  cold  and  hunger." 

Marion  could  not  really  judge  at  that  time,  but 
felt  that  Pososhkov  underestimated  the  power  of  the 
enemy. 

That  night  she  talked  to  Count  Feodor  of  that 
damning  contrast — the  island  parks  and  the  Vibourg 
suburb. 

He  replied  that  he  could  practically  match  the  con- 


196  THE     CHASM 

trast  in  every  great  city  of  the  modern  world — 
including  New  York.  In  St.  Petersburg  there  was 
no  truckling  attempt  to  hide  or  deny  it.  In  his 
opinion  the  true  attitude  of  the  aristocracy  of  all 
time  was  expressed  by  Beatrice  when  Dante  won 
dered  if  she  were  not  made  unhappy  by  compassion 
for  the  souls  she  saw  in  burning  hell.  She  answered: 
"God  in  his  mercy  has  made  me  such  that  the  fire 
of  this  burning  does  not  touch  me." 

If  the  price  of  the  island  parks  was  all  that  human 
misery,  he  felt  that  this  very  fact  gave  their  beauty 
added  elements  of  costliness  and  terror.  This  idea 
struck  him  as  so  profound,  so  true  to  the  nature  of 
the  universe  in  which  we  live,  that  he  resolved  to 
embody  it  in  a  tone-poem  called  "The  Islands  of  the 
Neva." 

He  sought  themes  expressive  of  the  despair  of  the 
starving  dwellers  of  the  mainland  and  treatment 
suggestive  of  the  weakness,  ebbing  vitality,  and 
broken  spirit,  which  kept  those  wretches  from  revolt. 
He  had  no  difficulty  with  the  contrasted  movements 
full  of  the  joy  of  life,  the  sense  of  power,  the  pride 
of  mastery  over  the  world,  the  exuberance  of  soul 
that  overflowed  in  love  of  beauty  and  magnificence. 

His  inspiration  here  was  his  conception  of  Peter 
the  Great — the  physical,  intellectual,  and  moral 
giant  whose  will  had  created  immense  and  massive 
St.  Petersburg  there  amid  insalubrious  marshes 
where  no  spontaneous  city  of  men  could  have  arisen. 
De  Hohenfels  strove  for  strange  and  Brobdignagian 
harmonies  and  movements  to  glorify  the  unnature, 
the  monstrosity  of  that  creation.  He  remembered  all 
he  had  ever  heard  or  seen  or  read  of  Peter — the 


THE     CHASM  197 

life-size,  wax-portrait  model  of  him  in  the  Palace  of 
the  Hermitage — sitting  in  his  own  chair,  dressed  in 
the  very  clothes  he  wore,  grasping  the  very  sword  he 
had  wrested  from  the  ruined  king  of  Poland — beside 
him  the  yellow  war-horse  he  had  ridden  at  Poltava 
the  day  he  founded  Russia  upon  the  ruins  of  Sweden. 
Feodor,  the  musician,  in  his  own  imagination  became 
Peter,  ruining  Poland,  ruining  Sweden,  transforming 
the  Neva-marshes,  transforming  the  Muscovite  Rus 
sia  that  had  been  into  the  European  Russia  that  he 
willed  to  be. 

That  destruction  and  assimilation  of  nations  was 
to  De  Hohenfels's  imagination  only  a  vast  develop 
ment  of  the  primitive  vital  theme — the  capture  and 
destruction  and  assimilation  of  one  living  thing  by 
another — the  theme  announced  in  minute  notes  by 
the  musician  Nature  when  the  first  animal  cellsturned 
from  inorganic  food  and  began  to  suck  in,  break 
down,  and  absorb  the  living  tissue  of  their  organic 
fellows.  In  the  last  analysis  it  was  the  imaginative 
emotion  aroused  in  him  by  the  whole  of  life  as  he 
conceived  it  which  he  was  striving  to  express  in 
music.  He  voiced  indifferently  the  tragic  hopeless 
ness  of  helpless  victims,  and  he  voiced  well  the  vic 
tor's  power  and  joy  of  power,  but  he  felt  he  was  fail 
ing  to  make  his  music  express  the  peculiar  relation  he 
wished  it  to  between  this  hopelessness  and  this  joy. 
The  originality  and  the  thrill  of  his  first  conception 
did  not  seem  to  work  out  in  musical  form. 

He  was  playing  over  all  he  had  written  one  morn 
ing  when  Marion  and  Vasili  Pososhkov  were  work 
ing  in  a  neighboring  room.  They  stopped  to  listen, 
the  tutor's  interest  heightened  by  her  remark  that  it 


198  THE     CHASM 

was  her  husband's  own  composition  he  was  working 
on. 

"Magnificent!"  said  Pososhkov  when  De  Hohen- 
fels  played  what  he  called  the  Peter  music. 

Marion  had  been  deeply  impressed  not  only  by 
the  music  but  also  by  Fedya's  profound  and  poetic 
verbal  interpretations  of  it.  Believing  Vasili  would 
be  similarly  affected,  she  outlined  the  composer's 
original  conception — the  seminal  idea  of  the  work — 
and  some  of  the  branching  ideas  that  had  since  put 
forth. 

"That's  what  he  thinks  he's  doing,  is  it?"  grunted 
Pososhkov.  "Glorifying  Bloody  Sunday!  The  noble 
battle!  Well,  the  music's  all  right.  Fortunately 
he  can't  narrow  that  universal  language  to  his  mean 
ing.  The  dream  of  Peter  nothing!  Do  you  know 
what  those  big,  weird  chords  are  really?  That's  the 
giant  Labor  waking  from  his  strange  old  sleep.  And 
that  exultant  part?  Democracy  triumphant — the 
voice  of  new  Russia.  And  that  doleful  stuff?  The 
miserable  Russia  which  has  been — including  a  wax 
work  Tsar  and  his  stuffed  horse!" 

"Don't  you  make  a  mistake  in  considering  such 
conceptions  dead  while  they  still  have  life  enough 
in  a  human  mind  to  produce  art  like  this?" 

"It  is  good  music  because  he  is  a  good  musician — 
in  spite  of  his  false  social  conceptions.  It  is  good 
because  it  happens  to  express  our  true  ones." 

"How  can  the  same  piece  of  music  express  these 
opposite  conceptions?" 

"The  musician's  conceptions  arouse  in  him  cer 
tain  feelings  which  he  expresses.  But  in  me  these 
very  feelings  are  associated  with  opposite  concep- 


THE     CHASM  199 

tions.  He  says  that  is  Tsar  Peter's  joy  of  power. 
It's  nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  anybody's  joy  of  power. 
I  like  it,  not  because  Tsar  Peter  had  it,  but  because 
the  Russian  people  are  going  to  have  it." 

She  admitted  he  had  the  best  of  that,  and  they 
went  back  to  their  Russian  grammar,  Vasili  Pososh- 
kov  deciding  that  the  American  Countess  had  a 
penetrative  intellect  and  a  fair  spirit. 

When  she  repeated  the  young  tutor's  various 
comments  to  Fedya,  he  made  the  point  that  his 
own  philosophy  and  Count  Tolstoi's  being  diametric 
opposites,  Pososhkov  could  have  no  real  ground  for 
rejecting  both. 

She  hurled  that  at  Pososhkov  next  morning.  The 
linguist  seemed  puzzled,  but  did  admit  that  the  two 
philosophies  really  were  opposites.  Marion  then 
insisted  that  he  must  choose  between  them,  and 
when  he  declined,  accused  him  of  being  unwilling  to 
admit  defeat. 

"But  what  exactly  is  the  main  question  upon  which 
Count  Hohenfels  and  Count  Tolstoi  take  opposite 
sides?" 

Marion  thought  in  its  broadest  form  it  was  the 
question  of  egoism  vs.  altruism. 

Pososhkov  preferred  to  define  it  as  the  actual 
practice  of  the  world  (mainly  egoistic)  vs.  the  Chris 
tian  theory  of  altruism.  "The  present  practise  of 
living  off  the  labor  of  others  means  island  parks  for 
you  and  Vibourg  tenements  for  your  neighbor.  It  is 
not  reconcilable  with  the  theory  'love  your  neighbor 
as  yourself.'  Your  husband  escapes  this  contradic 
tion  by  accepting  the  world's  actual  practise  and 
throwing  away  the  hypocritical  pretense  of  altruism. 


200  THE     CHASM 

Count  Tolstoi  tries  to  escape  it  in  the  other  direction 
— by  accepting  the  Christian  ideal  and  throwing 
away  the  world's  practise.  What  he  actually  does 
is  personally  half  to  renounce  the  fruits  of  capital 
ism.  He  still  owns  Yasnaya  Polyana,  but  thinks  he 
makes  that  all  right  by  dressing  as  though 
he  didn't." 

"But  does  he  think  so?  Doesn't  he  himself  feel 

that  as  an  inconsistency  that  exposes  him  to  ridicule  ?" 

"Whether  he  feels  it  or  not,  it  is  true,"  said  Po- 

soshkov.     "He  tries  to  escape  the  contradiction  and 

fails." 

"Well,"  said  she,  with  a  gleam  of  approaching  tri 
umph,  "I  admit  your  point  against  Tolstoi.  But  I 
noticed  you  said  my  husband  does  escape  the  contra 
diction." 

"Yes,  his  position  is  logical." 
"Then  why  don't  you  accept  it?" 
"Because  there  is  an  infinitely  better  one." 
"Better  than  one  that  is  perfectly  logical?" 
"Certainly.     Ours  is  not  only  logical,  but  right. 
Your  husband's   is  logical   and — rotten.     It   means 
Vibourg  tenements.     The  whole  miserable  problem 
disappears  with  the  system  of  private  ownership  of 
the  sources  of  life.    Owning  Russia  in  common,  new 
Russia  thereby  establishes  work  and  reward  on  a 
basis  that  antiquates  both  the  worldly  practise  of  ex 
ploiting  others,  and  the  Christian  theory  of  allowing 
others  to  exploit  us." 

But  the  next  day,  having  thought  this  over,  Mari 
on  forced  Pososhkov  to  retreat  from  his  poor 
opinion  of  Tolstoi's  altruism — for  Tolstoi.  "I  can 


THE     CHASM  201 

see  now,"  he  said  after  listening  to  her,  "that  in 
men  of  Tolstoi's  class  altruism,  non-retaliation,  is 
not  socially  noxious.  Altruism — in  him — does  no 
harm.  But  don't  let  him  preach  it  to  us.  I  know 
in  every  fiber  of  my  being  that  altruism,  submission, 
meekness,  on  the  part  of  our  class  means  leaving 
practically  all  social  wealth  and  power  in  the  hands 
of  the  few  whose  use  of  it  makes  such  a  world  as 
we  have.  That  is  socially  noxious.  The  selfish  self- 
assertive  desire  of  the  poor,  the  workers,  to  hold 
enough  of  wealth  to  maintain  life  well  is  socially 
valuable.  The  selfish  desire  of  the  rich  for  wealth 
beyond  what  is  necessary  to  maintain  life  well  is  bad 
for  the  common  life.  Improvement  in  our  society  is 
furthered  only  by  altruists  among  the  rich  and  ego 
ists  among  the  poor.  It  is  retarded  by  the  egoist 
rich  who  own  the  earth  and  the  altruist  poor  who 
let  them  own  it." 

Marion  did  not  care  to  go  into  it  with  Vasili  Po- 
soshkov,  but  back  in  her  own  mind,  unanswered, 
was  the  question  whether  the  concentration  of  wealth 
he  considered  socially  noxious  might  not  be  the 
world's  unconscious  preparation  for  the  mighty  work 
of  molding  the  beyond-man. 

In  succeeding  days  she  saw  wider  applications  of 
Pososhkov's  method  of  attacking  the  egoist-altruist 
problem.  She  laid  hold  of  tools  of  thought  that 
were  new  to  her.  She  had  never  realized  that  a  posi 
tion  could  be  "logical  and  rotten."  She  had  thought 
the  maxim  "Of  two  evils  choose  neither"  a  witty  im 
possibility.  And  this  new  thinking  of  hers  tended  to 
reduce  the  ascendency  Fedya  had  established  over 


202  THE     CHASM 

her  mind  in  th'e  blaze  of  intellectual  and  artistic 
power  in  him  when  he  first  conceived  "The  Islands 
of  the  Neva." 

His  musical  enthusiasm  had  begun  to  wane  even 
before  he  was  drawn  off  by  his  appointment  on  a 
commission  sent  by  the  Duma  to  investigate  the 
massacre  of  the  Jews  in  Bialostok.  In  that  town  he 
helped  to  gather,  sift,  and  analyze  a  mass  of  testi 
mony  proving  that  the  butchery  of  unarmed  men  by 
armed,  organized,  and  carefully  directed  mobs,  the 
raping  of  women,  the  killing  of  children,  was  done 
with  the  connivance  of  the  police  and  local  military 
authorities,  that  some  of  the  police  were  eye-witness 
es  of  some  of  the  murders  and  made  no  attempt  to 
stop  them,  that  women  fugitives  escaping  the  mob 
were  denied  refuge  at  police  headquarters,  being  told 
by  the  chief  of  police  that  what  they  were  getting 
they  deserved  because  of  the  socialist  agitation 
among  the  Jews.  The  commission  found  that  the 
Anti-Semitic  newspaper  editor  whose  paper  had  care 
fully  manufactured  sentiment  against  the  Jews  had 
been  given  free  rein  by  the  Governor-General  of 
Grodno,  that  this  editor  and  his  son  had  organized 
the  bands  of  so-called  Black  Hundreds  which  were 
led  and  directed  by  prominent  citizens  of  Bialostok. 
The  Governor-General  had  refused  the  Jews  permis 
sion  to  arm  themselves  in  self-defense,  and  one  band 
who  did  arm  themselves  were  overpowered  and  dis 
armed  by  police  and  soldiers,  who  then  left  them  to 
the  mercy  of  the  Black  Hundreds.  The  commission 
found  that  the  editor  was  acting  with  the  approval 
of  the  St.  Petersburg  authorities. 

The  Minister  of  the  Interior  published  a  report 


THE     CHASM  203 

on  the  causes  of  the  massacre  which  the  Duma's 
commission  proved  to  be  wholly  at  variance  with 
the  facts.  The  final  report  of  the  commission  placed 
the  responsibility  for  the  massacre  upon  the  Central 
Government  itself. 

To  the  Duma's  specific  charge  of  direct  complicity 
in  the  wholesale  murders  of  Bialostok  the  only  an 
swer  of  the  Government  was  a  manifesto  of  the  Tsar 
stating  in  general  terms  that  riot,  sedition,  and  rebel 
lion  were  rife  throughout  the  Empire,  that  seventy 
thousand  lives  had  already  been  sacrificed,  and  that 
this  condition  had  been  brought  about  solely  through 
the  dirty  work  (skernoye  dyelo]  of  the  revolution 
ists. 

Upon  De  Hohenfels's  return  from  Bialostok,  M. 
Kokoreff  came  to  him  and  told  him  that  as  his 
brother-in-law  he  wanted  to  warn  him  that  he  would 
find  it  seriously  to  his  personal  disadvantage  if  he 
did  not  use  his  influence  with  his  colleagues  to  secure 
a  more  "conservative"  report. 

Count  Feodor  replied  that  if  Kokoreff  wished  to 
indulge  himself  in  the  pastime  of  arranging  mas 
sacres,  to  go  ahead,  but  not  to  expect  people  of  dif 
ferent  tastes  to  help  him  avert  publicity. 

Kokoreff  said  significantly  that  even  for  certain 
unofficial  acts  he  had  the  sanction  of  his  chief.  This 
should  have  overwhelmed  De  Hohenfels,  but  to 
Kokoreff's  horror,  when  the  report  appeared,  he 
found  himself  quoted  to  that  effect.  He  saved  his 
official  head  only  by  swearing  he  had  never  made  the 
remark. 

De  Hohenfels  was  protected  by  a  theoretical  im 
munity  from  arrest  enjoyed  by  members  of  the 


204  THE     CHASM 

Duma,  but  "the  Tsar's  promises"  had  become  a 
proverb.  Scores  of  men  who  had  accepted  as  made 
in  good  faith  the  ukase  granting  the  right  of  free 
speech  and  had  used  the  right  had  been  instantly 
seized  and  subjected  to  terrible  treatment  by  the 
police.  Of  them  and  their  agents,  after  Bialostok, 
Marion  began  to  live  in  fear. 

De  Hohenfels's  work  with  the  commission  having 
brought  him  into  closer  touch  with  his  colleagues,  he 
again  attended  the  sessions  of  the  Duma.  Things 
there  were  coming  to  a  head.  The  peasant  deputies 
had  reached  almost  the  limit  of  their  patience  with 
mere  speech-making.  Pressure  had  been  brought 
constantly  to  bear  on  them  by  their  constituents  who, 
in  twenty  thousand  letters  and  telegrams,  wanted  to 
know  why  they  had  not  secured  the  land.  By  the 
middle  of  July,  after  the  Tsar's  manifesto,  which, 
the  peasants  noticed,  said  nothing  about  the  land, 
committees  of  muzhiks  from  all  over  Russia  came 
pouring  into  St.  Petersburg  "to  find  out  what  was 
the  matter  with  their  deputies." 

Commenting  on  this,  Vasili  Pososhkov  said  to 
Marion  that  it  showed  how  really  representative  the 
parliament  of  new  Russia  would  be — "when  decay 
ing,  capitalistic  autocracy  is  over  and  done  with  and 
the  stench  of  it  gone  from  the  earth!" 

Their  spines  stiffened  by  the  knowledge  that  there 
were  ten  million  peasants  behind  them,  the  Labor 
Group  prepared  an  appeal  to  the  people  stating  that 
the  Duma  was  an  impotent  body,  that  it  could  do 
nothing  but  talk,  and  that  the  only  way  to  secure  any 
change  whatever  in  conditions  was  for  the  people 


THE    CHASM  205 

themselves  to  rise  en  masse  and  overturn  the  existing 
Government. 

That  Saturday  afternoon,  July  2ist,  the  Consti 
tutional  Democrats — who  had  made  the  long  speech 
es  the  peasants  were  weary  of  hearing — proposed, 
instead  of  this  appeal,  a  statement  to  the  people  ex 
plaining  why  they  could  do  nothing,  but  omitting  the 
Peasants'  revolutionary  call  to  arms. 

Monday  morning,  the  time  set  for  the  debate  be 
tween  the  Peasants  with  their  appeal  and  the  Cadets 
with  their  statement,  De  Hohenfels  went  as  usual  to 
the  Tauride  Palace.  He  found  the  building  full  of 
troops,  crowds  of  excited  deputies  in  the  corridors, 
and  on  the  locked  door  of  the  assembly  room  a  man 
ifesto  of  Nicholas  dissolving  the  Duma. 

In  the  corridor,  Hertzenstein,  who,  as  chairman, 
had  signed  the  report  of  the  Bialostok  commission, 
met  De  Hohenfels  and  took  him  to  one  side.  "I  am 
going  to  Finland  this  afternoon,"  said  he.  "In  fact 
most  of  us  are.  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  be 
with  us  in  what  we  may  decide  to  do — from  across 
the  border — but  take  my  advice  and  get  out  of  St. 
Petersburg.  Better  get  out  of  Russia.  And  do  it 
to-day." 

De  Hohenfels  thought  him  unduly  alarmed,  but 
had  no  intention  of  remaining  in  St.  Petersburg 
through  the  summer,  and  went  home  to  talk  it  over 
with  Marion  and  decide  where  they  were  to  go.  He 
hesitated  about  going  to  his  estate  in  Central  Rus 
sia,  where  martial  law  prevailed,  or  to  Zhergan.  Ten 
days  before  they  had  shot  eight  revolutionists  in 
Riga,  forty  miles  from  there.  However,  he  had  a 


206  THE     CHASM 

letter  from  Churisnok,  his  overseer,  saying  that  the 
commandant  of  the  Zhergan  garrison  had  estab 
lished  his  headquarters  at  the  manor-house;  and  that, 
he  reflected,  would  assure  a  guard  for  himself  and 
Marion. 

On  his  way  home  in  a  hired  droshky  from  the 
Tauride  Palace,  De  Hohenfels  secured  a  copy  of 
the  official  Gazette  of  that  morning,  and  turned  to 
the  Tsar's  manifesto,  which  he  had  not  stopped  to 
read  through  at  the  Palace.  He  read  the  manifesto, 
and  then,  to  his  amazement,  discovered  a  brief  no 
tice  of  the  death  of  Deputy  Hertzenstein,  killed  by 
persons  unknown  in  front  of  his  apartment  in  Vasili 
Ostrov,  Fifth  Line.  The  notice  did  not  specify  the 
hour,  but  it  must  have  been  in  type  two  or  three 
hours;  and  having  talked  with  Hertzenstein  not 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  De  Hohenfels  knew  it 
must  be  incorrect. 

When  he  came  in,  Marion  was  writing  Russian  at 
a  big  table  with  grammar  and  dictionary  at  her  el 
bow,  getting  ready  for  Vasili  Pososhkov  at  eleven. 

"There's  some  Russian  for  you,"  said  Feodor, 
handing  her  the  paper  with  the  Tsar's  manifesto. 
"The  Duma  is  dissolved." 

"Dissolved!"  She  took  the  paper.  "Isn't  that  un 
expected?  Doesn't  that  leave  everything  unsettled 
and  undone?" 

"Of  course.  That's  what  the  Government  wants. 
Most  of  the  deputies  are  going  to  Finland.  They 
may  direct  the  rising  of  all  Russia  from  across  the 
border." 

"Are  you  going  with  them?"  Her  eyes  lighted 
with  the  hope  that  he  was. 


THE     CHASM  207 

"No.  But  what  we  should  decide  at  once  is  where 
we  ourselves  are  going  for  the  summer.  St.  Peters 
burg  is  no  place — even  aside  from  politics." 

They  were  approaching  a  decision  in  favor  of 
Zhergan,  when  the  footman  brought  Count  Feodor 
the  card  of  the  editor  Kovalevsky. 

Being  ushered  in,  and  assured  he  could  speak 
freely  before  Marion,  the  newspaper  man  said  he 
had  only  a  moment.  He  was  not  a  member  of  the 
Duma,  but  had  been  actively  aiding  it,  and  he  was 
going  to  take  the  first  train  for  Vibourg  across  the 
Finnish  border.  He  had  been  told  by  some  of  the 
deputies  that  De  Hohenfels  had  gone  home,  and 
passing  the  Hotel  d'Europe,  he  had  thought  it  well 
to  come  up  and  tell  him  of  certain  things  that  were 
happening.  "Did  you  hear  about  Hertzenstein?"  he 
asked. 

"His  death?"  said  De  Hohenfels. 

"His  death!"  exclaimed  Marion,  turning  pale. 

"It  isn't  true,"  said  De  Hohenfels  hastily.  "I 
talked  with  him  myself  not  over  an  hour  ago,  and 
this  paper  must  have  gone  to  press  three  or  four 
hours  ago."  He  reached  for  the  Gazette,  and  turned 
to  the  notice. 

"I  know  nothing  about  what's  in  the  paper," 
said  Kovalevsky.  "I  saw  Hertzenstein's  dead  body 
at  his  lodgings  half  an  hour  ago.  His  wife  is  hyster 
ical.  The  concierge  saw  him  shot  to  death  by  four 
rough-looking  fellows  with  army  revolvers.  They 
were  waiting  at  his  door  and  opened  fire  as  he  got 
out  of  his  cab.  After  he  fell  they  took  time  to  fire 
into  his  body  as  it  lay  on  the  curb.  They  kept  off 
passers-by  at  the  point  of  their  pistols,  and  escaped. 


208  THE     CHASM 

Since  last  night  there  have  been  no  city  police  on 
duty,  not  even  at  crossings,  within  three  blocks  of 
that  house." 

"How  horrible!"  exclaimed  Marion. 

"Here's  the  real  horror,"  said  Fedya,  pointing 
to  the  notice  in  the  paper.  "The  official  Gazette 
printed  the  notice  of  Hertzenstein's  death  three 
hours  before  it  took  place." 

Kovalevsky  glanced  at  the  notice  without  sur 
prise.  "This  was  evidently  released  about  one  edi 
tion  too  soon,"  said  he.  "I  don't  wish  to  alarm  the 
Countess,  but  you  also  did  good  work  at  Bialostok, 
Count  de  Hohenfels,  and  the  moral  of  this  story  for 
you  is — get  out  of  St.  Petersburg." 


Ill- 

TRAVELING  unattended,  the  Count  and 
Countess  de  Hohenfels  reached  Pskov  at  nine 
that  evening  with  sunset  still  reddening  the 
northwest,  and  five  hours  later,  in  the  dawn,  looked 
from  the  swaying  windows  of  their  sleeping-car 
stateroom  to  find  the  train  following  a  swift,  cold 
stream  through  a  warm  and  winding  valley  from 
which  rose  rolling  uplands  belted  with  firwoods. 
Outlined  against  the  russet  sky  appeared  half-ruined 
walls  with  round-arched  windows  and  crenelated  tur 
rets — mournful  as  unburied  skeletons — masonic 
bones  of  a  social  structure  that  had  passed  away,  fill 
ing  the  soul  with  sudden  knowledge  that  our  own 
crowded  and  busy  epoch  will  fall  silent  and  fore 
shorten  to  a  moment  of  immense  antiquity. 

They  spent  an  hour  in  Riga — a  large  and  busy 
city  of  electric  cars,  automobiles,  public  gardens  with 
electric-lighted  band-stands,  and  solid  business  blocks 
like  those  of  Hamburg.  After  a  surfeit  of  Mus 
covite  domes,  Marion  was  glad  to  look  once  more 
on  the  architecture  of  western  Europe  in  the  Gothic 
Peterskirche.  They  drove  past  the  old  Rathhaus  of 
Hanseatic  times,  and  two  minutes  later,  with  the 
imaginative  shock  of  suddenly  contrasted  ages,  they 

209 


210  THE     CHASM 

found  themselves  looking  at  a  steamer  from  New 
York. 

On  a  track  across  the  broad  paved  street  from  the 
quay,  close  to  the  wall  of  a  five-story  stone  ware 
house,  stood  a  string  of  dumpy  little  white  freight- 
cars  bound  for  Irkutsk  in  Siberia  four  or  five  thou 
sand  miles  inland,  and  on  those  cars,  with  a  cry  of 
joy,  followed  by  an  unexpected  choke,  Marion  Moul- 
ton  that  was  discovered  a  row  of  bright  new  farm 
machinery  from  Moline.  The  trouble  was — it  stood 
just  that  same  way  on  the  cars  alongside  the  Third 
Avenue  warehouse.  That  warehouse  beneath  the 
windowed  walls  of  which  she  had  walked  in  the  days 
of  slates  and  short  skirts — it  was  there  this  minute ! 
She  kept  her  face  away  so  Fedya  did  not  see  the  sil 
ver  drops  beneath  her  veil. 

Two  hours'  ride  on  a  slow  train  brought  them  to 
Mitau,  a  quiet  town  as  large  as  Moline  and  Rock 
Island.  Above  it  loomed  the  massive  castle  of  Biren, 
Duke  of  Courland,  a  cousin  of  the  Von  Hohenfels 
of  his  time,  a  paramour  of  the  Empress  of  Russia, 
and  the  host  of  the  realmless  Louis  XVIII  of 
France.  Mitau  was  full  of  black-eyed,  high-cheek- 
boned  Cossacks  and  Polish  infantrymen — Catholic 
Slavs  brought  here  to  stamp  out  the  revolution  of 
the  Lutheran  Letts  while  Lettish  soldiers  were  shoot 
ing  the  striking  workmen  of  Poland. 

It  was  only  twenty-five  versts  from  Mitau  to 
Zhergan,  and  had  it  not  been  for  rumors  of  "Broth 
ers  of  the  Woods"  in  the  Hohenfels  forest,  the 
Count  would  have  had  his  coachman  meet  them  at 
Mitau.  They  went  on  a  passenger-coach  trailed  be^ 
hind  short,  dingy-white,  flat-cars  whose  heavy  wood^ 


THE    CHASM 

en  floors  were  scurfed  by  the  butts  of  pine-logs  till 
they  looked  like  hempen  mats.  After  the  first  ten 
versts  the  roughly  built  spur  of  the  railway  ran 
through  their  own  property. 

The  logging  cars  were  shunted  to  a  siding  in  the 
forest,  and  the  engine,  emerging  into  fields  of  oats 
and  potatoes  and  open  pastures  full  of  cattle  and 
grazing  ponies,  drew  the  coach  and  some  empty 
"goods-trucks,"  as  Fedya  called  them,  to  a  little 
slate-colored  railway  station  in  the  outskirts  of  Zher- 
gan — a  town  whose  five  thousand  people  were  most 
ly  liberated  Hohenfels  serfs  living  now  by  agricul 
ture,  lumbering,  and  the  rural  industries. 

They  were  met  by  broadly  smiling  footman  and 
coachman  in  livery,  who  called  Fedya  "little  father." 
He  called  them  little  David  and  little  Ilya,  little 
David  being  something  over  six  feet  high.  They  got 
into  a  cumbrous  gala  coach  which  lumbered  out  of 
the  village,  past  Kronberg's  brickyard,  along  a 
country  road  between  brown  hayfields  to  a  large 
group  of  stone  and  wooden  farm  buildings,  beyond 
which  they  came  through  a  shady,  English-looking 
park  to  the  manor.  It  was  a  large  white  wooden 
house  with  colonnades  and  terraces  and  gravel  walks 
not  wholly  free  from  weeds,  and  reminded  Marion 
of  the  Georgia  home  of  the  college  chum  she  called 
"my  glorious  Barbara."  To  the  east,  in  front  of  an 
orchard,  were  the  brown  shelter  tents  of  a  platoon  of 
Russian  soldiers. 

A  score  of  houseservants  were  lined  up  in  the 
manner  of  the  preceding  generation  to  receive  the 
"barin"  and  his  bride,  and  "Feodor  Lefyevitch," 
greeting  them  by  their  diminutive  names,  found  him- 


THE     CHASM 

self  drawn  back  into  the  patronizing,  patriarchal 
manner  of  his  father  "Lef  Alexievitch."  He  drew 
the  line,  however,  at  their  kissing  his  hand. 

Yury  Churisnok,  a  Great-Russian  muzhik  risen  by 
virtue  of  success  as  a  rent-collector  to  the  long  coat 
of  the  overseer,  performed  the  important  social  func 
tion  of  introducing  the  Commandant  Count  Tschu- 
litsky  to  his  master. 

The  Countess  acknowledged  the  introduction  of 
the  army  officer  in  Russian,  but  that  gentleman, 
noting  her  accent,  had  sufficient  lack  of  tact  to  an 
swer  in  French — as  much  as  to  say,  "I  see  you  don't 
speak  Russian."  Marion  gave  him  a  look  he  did  not 
understand.  The  Adjutant,  Captain  Sikorsky,  a 
plump,  fine-looking  man  with  blue  eyes  and  brown 
moustache,  spoke  Russian  and  complimented  the 
Countess  on  hers,  thereby  winning  a  look  of  real 
interest  as  she  wondered  whether  he  had  been  keen 
enough  to  understand  her  displeasure  with  Tschu- 
litsky.  Sikorsky  said  something  to  De  Hohenfels 
about  the  inconvenience  of  finding  uninvited  guests 
in  possession  of  one's  house. 

Feodor  replied  that  on  the  contrary  it  was  any 
thing  but  an  inconvenience  there  in  the  country  to  be 
assured  of  the  society  of  men  of  one's  own  class. 

Tschulitsky  drew  attention  to  the  obvious  prac 
tical  benefit  of  a  guard  for  the  premises,  at  which 
Sikorsky,  raising  his  eyebrows,  looked  at  the  Coun 
tess  as  much  as  to  say,  "Well,  there's  no  help  for  it !" 

As  Feodor  and  Marion  walked  through  the  old- 
fashioned  rooms  with  their  inlaid  floors,  ceilings  six 
teen  feet  high,  and  heavy  Victorian  furniture,  he 


THE     CHASM  213 

observed  that  no  doubt  she  would  want  to  modern 
ize  her  house.  He  used  the  special  phrase  "sobst- 
venny  dom,"  emphasizing  her  ownership. 

"Oh,  no,  Fedya !  Don't  try  to  make  a  reality  out 
of  that  legal  fiction." 

"As  you  please.  I  was  only  trying  to  make  you 
feel  at  home." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  and  did  not  explain  that  bring 
ing  up  that  idea  in  that  way  had  the  opposite  effect. 
"The  old  nurse  is  a  dear,"  she  said, — "and  that  jolly 
Davuidka.  The  affection  they  have  for  you  is  charm 
ing.  How  much  better  it  is  to  have  cordial  human  be 
ings  for  servants  than  expressionless  automata  of 
the  English  pattern.  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am 
to  get  away  from  St.  Petersburg  to  these  people  who 
are  of  the  soil." 

He  said  he  was  afraid  she  would  soon  find  limits 
to  the  charm  of  the  peasant  class,  and  in  the  days 
that  followed  she  had  to  admit  that  he  was  right.  In 
the  first  place  she  found  the  "affection"  she  had  no 
ticed  confined  to  a  few  old  Russian  retainers  among 
the  houseservants.  Most  of  the  hired  agricultural 
laborers  at  the  farm,  and  the  numerous  tenants,  sons 
of  liberated  Hohenfels  serfs,  were  Letts,  and  she 
could  not  speak  their  language.  There  was  an  In 
filtration  of  muzhiks  from  Kovno,  but  though  she 
talked  with  them,  they  were  suspicious  of  her  friendly 
advances.  For  a  while  the  chief  impression  was  one 
of  immense  unconquerable  stupidity  in  them,  but  one 
morning  two  muzhiks  she  knew  passed  outside  the 
window  of  the  dairy  where  she  was  talking  to  a 
woman  churning,  and  one  of  them  was  criticizing 


214  THE     CHASM 

Count  Feodor's  attitude  on  the  land  question  in  the 
Duma  as  not  representing  the  desire  of  the  people 
who  elected  him. 

"Don't  you  know  no  landlord  can  understand  any 
thing?"  demanded  the  other. 

"So  they  think  us  stupid,"  mused  Marion,  and 
wondered  if  the  stupidity  she  saw  in  them  could  be  a 
mask  behind  which  they  concealed  their  real  thoughts 
and  feelings  from  "the  landlords."  From  her  win 
dow  she  sometimes  heard  the  soldiers  laughing,  turn 
ing  proverbs  against  each  other,  speaking  with  voices 
expressive  of  shrewdness  and  humor,  but  when  an 
officer  was  near,  or  when  she  herself  tried  to  talk 
with  them — the  mask !  They  did  not  consciously  put 
it  on.  It  was  instinct. 

The  Baron  and  Baroness  Krushcaln  and  their  sev 
enteen-year-old  daughter  called  to  pay  their  respects 
to  the  new  Countess.  They  were  provincial  people 
and  not  very  interesting  to  Marion.  Baron  Von 
Wikkerstrom  and  Police  Intendant  Bratavzinsky 
were  other  important  neighbors  whose  calls  had  to 
be  returned  by  Count  Feodor.  Yan  Sarin,  the  fore 
man  of  the  smithy  on  the  estate,  was  a  manly,  in 
telligent-looking  fellow,  who,  Marion  felt,  could 
have  helped  her  get  in  touch  with  the  people,  but 
he  was  a  Lett.  So  was  the  plump,  rosy  mail-carrier 
who  brought  their  mail  from  town.  She  was  reluct 
ant  to  take  up  Lettish  in  addition  to  Russian,  espe 
cially  since  she  thought  the  language  had  no  import 
ant  literature  to  reward  her  for  the  labor  of  learn 
ing  it,  but  finally  took  as  tutor  one  of  the  housemaids. 
The  girl  was  uneducated  and  not  so  much  a  teacher 
as  a  passive,  and  indifferent,  living  dictionary. 


THE     CHASM  215 

Count  Tschulitsky  said  he  could  not  understand 
why  anyone  should  wish  to  know  Lettish,  and  when 
she  answered,  "Because  one  wishes  to  know  the 
Letts,"  he  seemed  inclined  to  regard  her  as  a  dan 
gerous  character.  Sikorsky  remarked  afterward  to 
the  Countess  that  Tschulitsky  looked  upon  the 
Letts'  Inability  to  speak  Russian  as  a  kind  of  treason. 

The  Captain  suggested  as  tutor  the  village  dress 
maker,  who  spoke  Lettish,  though  she  was  of  a 
Russian  family — now  impoverished.  She  had  been 
educated  in  France  and  St.  Petersburg.  Sikorsky  had 
attempted  to  make  her  acquaintance.  He  said  she 
was  a  touchy,  bad-tempered  individual,  possibly  em 
bittered  by  misfortune,  but  no  doubt  intelligent 
enough  to  teach.  Moreover  if  study  of  the  people 
was  the  idea,  the  Countess  might  find  a  short  cut 
through  this  Sonya  Demidoff's  knowledge  of  them. 

Marion  drove  over  that  afternoon  to  the  Zhergan 
dressmaking  establishment,  located  in  one  wing  of  a 
two:story  brick  building.  It  had  one  display  win 
dow  exhibiting  three  pathetic  bonnets,  a  trayful  of 
artificial  flowers,  and  half  a  dozen  bolts  of  ribbon.  A 
bell  jangled  alarmingly  above  her  head  as  she  pushed 
open  the  street  door.  There  was  no  one  in  the  un- 
carpeted,  littered-up  shop;  but  low  sounds  as  of 
things  being  hastily  set  to  rights  came  from  behind  a 
partition  of  unpainted  dressed  lumber,  in  a  certain 
crack  of  which,  unobserved  by  the  visitor,  there  was 
one  small  knot-hole  covered,  as  it  happened,  on  the 
inside,  by  a  framed  lithograph  which  could  be  noise 
lessly  drawn  aside.  The  shop  was  nearly  filled  by  a 
pine  table  covered  with  paper  patterns  and  half-cut 
garments,  two  chairs,  and  a  Singer  sewing  machine 


216  THE     CHASM 

made  in  the  American  Company's  factory  in  Podolsk 
by  low-waged  Russian  workers.  The  manufacturer's 
name,  CVIHFEP,  in  Russian  characters,  was  cast  in 
the  metal. 

The  door  in  the  partition  was  unbolted  and 
opened,  a  young  woman  in  a  black  and  white  checked 
gingham  waist  and  short  walking  skirt  came  through 
it,  saw  the  fashionable  customer  in  her  fine  linen  suit, 
and  accompanied  her  Russian  salutation  with  a  frank 
look  out  of  clear  blue  eyes.  Expecting  to  see  a  some 
what  sour,  old-maidish  individual,  the  Countess  was 
agreeably  surprised.  "Are  you  Sonya  Demidoff?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes.  What  can  I  do  for  you?"  The  absence  of 
any  conventionally  respectful  form  of  address  was 
not  noticeable  thanks  to  a  peculiar  friendliness  of 
tone. 

Marion  gave  an  order  for  a  large  number  of  rough 
towels  and  cotton  sheets  and  pillow-cases  much  need 
ed  at  the  manor  in  the  row  of  one-roomed  cottages 
called  the  servants'  wing.  The  fine  embroidered  bed- 
linen,  of  which  there  was  an  enormous  quantity,  was 
used  only  on  the  beds  of  the  gentlefolks,  and  ac 
cording  to  Anna  Churisnok,  the  housekeeper,  it 
would  have  been  a  sure  sign  of  family  degeneracy 
had  there  not  been  enough  of  it  to  last  a  year  with 
out  a  washing. 

The  dressmaker  hesitated  about  accepting  the 
Countess's  order,  but  said  finally  that  she  would  send 
to  Mitau  for  the  goods — in  a  day  or  two. 

"It  would  be  only  fair  if  I  advanced  the  money 
for  the  goods,"  said  Marion. 

"More   than    fair,"    answered   Sonya    Demidoff, 


THE     CHASM  217 

smiling.  "But  as  I  think  you  guessed,  it  would  save 
— my  friends  the  trouble  of  lending  it  to  me.  So  you 
may  if  you  will." 

Marion  nodded. 

"Let  us  see  how  much  it  will  be,"  said  the  dress 
maker.  She  sat  down  and  began  to  figure.  After  a 
moment  she  looked  up,  with  a  shade  of  surprise,  at 
Marion  still  standing,  and  then  at  the  other  chair. 

The  lady  accepted  the  suggestion  and  seated  her 
self. 

"About  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  roubles." 

Marion  opened  her  silver-linked  purse  with  the 
arms  of  De  Hohenfels  on  one  side  of  it,  and  laid  out 
two  hundred  roubles  in  clean  new  notes. 

"What  a  remarkable  purse !"  the  dressmaker  mur 
mured. 

"It  is  handsome,"  admitted  Marion,  turning  it  to 
view. 

"It  has  money  in  it!    Most  abnormal!" 

Marion  was  inclined  to  view  talk  about  money  as 
in  poor  taste,  but  Sonya  Demidoff  broke  into  such 
care-free,  unmalicious  laughter  that  the  lady  with  the 
abnormal  purse  could  not  resist  its  contagion.  She 
wondered  what  had  given  Sikorsky  the  impression 
that  this  creature  was  sour  or  bad-tempered.  "I  be 
lieve  I  forgot  to  mention  my  name,"  she  said.  "I  am 
the  Countess  de  Hohenfels." 

"You  could  be  no  one  else,"  said  Sonya  Demidoff, 
wondering  if  the  Countess  attached  much  importance 
to  the  title.  To  find  out  she  observed :  "I  suppose  you 
know  I  am  the  Princess  Demidoff." 

Marion's  eyes  opened  wide.  "Really?"  she 
gasped. 


218  THE     CHASM 

The  Princess  Demidoff  smiled.  "Is  that  so  won 
derful?  You  will  find  stranger  things  than  that  in 
Russia." 

"Goodness!"  exclaimed  Marion,  smiling.  "I  hope 
I  haven't  inadvertently  failed  in  the  respect  due  to 
one  of  your  rank!" 

"No, — since  you  have  not  failed  in  the  respect  due 
the  village  dressmaker." 

"I  see.   Were  you  always  so  democratic?" 

"No.    I  had  to  free  myself  of  many  unrealities." 

"Are  social  distinctions  unrealities?" 

"Not  yet.  But  they  have  no  weight  with  me.  In 
dividual  distinctions  are  all  that  count." 

"I  find  the  class  distinction  very  sharp  in  Russia. 
I  know  one  barin  who  believes  there  is  even  the  be 
ginning  of  a  biologic  difference  between  his  class  and 
the  muzhik — indicated  by  a  totally  different  set  of 
instincts." 

"Such  superstition!  Do  you  not  know  about  the 
jus  primee  noctls?" 

The  Countess  confessed  her  ignorance,  and  Sonya 
Demidoff  opened  her  eyes  by  explaining  how  that  in 
stitution  and  the  polygamous  tendency  of  the  male 
aristocrats  had  sent  their  blood  through  the  entire 
European  population  in  every  two  or  three  genera 
tions  during  all  the  long  centuries  of  feudalism.  "The 
different  instincts  are  consequently  the  result  of  dif 
ferent  economic  and  social  conditions,"  said  Sonya. 
"The  same  blood  flows  in  the  muzhik  and  the  Tsar, 
and  of  the  two — give  me  the  muzhik." 

"Of  two  evils  choose  neither,"  murmured  Marion. 

"The  muzhik  is  not  an  evil.  He  has  been  made 
muzhikavatwi  (boorish),  but  the  root  of  the  word  is 


THE    CHASM  219 

muzh  (a  man).  Did  you  live  in  St.  Petersburg  this 
summer  and  not  learn  the  caliber  of  such  muzhiks  as 
Anakin,  Jilkin,  Aladin,  Kurneen?  But  be  more  care 
ful  how  you  agree  with  strangers  that  the  Tsar  is 
an  evil.  I  am  not  a  police  spy,  but  if  I  were — and 
you  do  not  know  who  is — I  would  talk  to  you  just 
as  I'm  talking  now — even  to  this  very  warning." 

The  American  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  nature  of 
that  great  net  of  treachery  and  countertreachery 
whose  meshes  run  through  the  whole  of  Russian  so 
ciety.  "How  do  you  know  /  am  not?"  demanded 
she. 

"People  engage  in  that  dirty  business  for  profit — 
at  first,  and  finally  from  perverted  pride  in  their  skill 
as  liars.  But  you  are  a  rich  American." 

"I  will  be  more  discreet.  But  my  instinct  for 
people  is  quite  untrustworthy  if  you  are  in  any  dis 
creditable  business." 

"That's  sweet!"  exclaimed  Sonya,  smiling. 

"I  am  looking  for  a  tutor  in  Lettish,"  said  Mari 
on.  "Will  you  accept  me  as  a  pupil?" 

"Lettish?  I  am  doubtful.  I  have  never  thought 
of  it  as  a  language  to  be  studied.  My  knowledge  of 
it  has  been  picked  up  instinctively." 

"It  would  probably  be  impossible  to  find  anyone 
of  whom  that  is  not  true." 

"No,  the  Letts  are  cultivating  their  language. 
There  are  poems,  novels,  romances.  There  is  a  Let 
tish  literary  society  in  Mitau.  German  philologians 
have  made  exhaustive  studies  of  the  grammar  and 
phonology.  You  could  find  masters  of  the  subject  in 
Mitau." 

"I  want  you,"  said  Marion.     "You  know  how  to 


220  THE     CHASM 

study  language.  You  would  enjoy  analyzing  your  in 
stinctive  knowledge  of  this  one." 

The  dressmaker  asked  for  a  day  or  two  to  con 
sider. 

That  night  Marion  asked  Feodor  how  the  Prin 
cess  Demidoff  came  to  be  keeping  a  little  shop  in 
Zhergan. 

"She's  the  daughter  of  a  Siberian  exile,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Prince  Ivan  Demidoff's  estates  were  confis 
cated,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  fifteen  years'  labor  in 
the  mines  for  circulating  'high  treasonable'  literature 
condemning  the  government  censorship  of  books. 
The  girl's  stepmother  went  back  to  her  family.  De 
midoff  was  a  fine  fellow.  I  heard  him  speak  once 
when  I  was  in  the  University.  He  was  perfectly 
right  about  the  censorship.  I  hold  his  view  exactly." 

"The  view  he  is  in  Siberia  for  holding!" 

"The  same.  I  didn't  print  my  view.  Demidoff  was 
one  of  the  self-sacrificing  fools.  What  good  has  his 
ruining  himself  done  for  the  freedom  of  the  press? 
Absolutely  none!" 

The  next  day  Marion  was  back  at  the  dressmak 
er's,  her  sympathy  stirred  by  Sonya's  history,  her  lik 
ing  for  the  girl  increased  by  reflection  upon  what  she 
had  seen  of  her.  She  was  invited  into  the  room  behind 
the  partition  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  from  Sonya's  samo 
var.  This  room — kitchen,  dining-room,  bedroom, 
and  salon — was  considerably  larger  than  the  shop, 
had  a  thick  carpet  on  the  floor,  heavy  curtains,  semi- 
ornamental  iron  lattices  across  the  windows  looking 
into  a  side  street,  and  what  with  the  bed,  the  long 
divans,  and  some  upholstered  chairs,  was  capable  of 
seating  fifteen  or  twenty  persons. 


THE     CHASM 

UI  see  you  are  looking  at  my  books,"  remarked 
Sonya.  "Those  are  for  the  benefit  of  the  police,  who 
occasionally  pay  me  a  little  visit  when  they  think  I'd 
rather  not  see  them.  You  are  sitting  on  my  forbidden 
library — enough  to  send  me  to  Siberia.  If  there's 

anything  you'd  like  to  smuggle  home  with  you " 

She  showed  how  the  divan  opened,  revealing  a  secret 
chest  full  of  books  and  pamphlets,  and  watched  her 
visitor's  expression. 

"I  would  like  to  take  all  your  books  home  with 
me,"  said  Marion,  " — and  also  their  owner."  Judg 
ing  from  the  girl's  pleased  expression  that  the  idea 
appealed  to  her,  the  Countess  made  her  an  offer  of  a 
permanent  position  at  a  good  salary  as  tutor  of  Let 
tish  and  Russian,  making  it  plain  that  she  was  desired 
even  more  as  a  companion  than  as  a  teacher. 

Sonya  thanked  her,  but  declined,  and  being  pressed 
for  her  reason,  answered:  "Here  I  am  free.  Here 
my  friends  come  and  go  as  they  like." 

"You  can  be  equally  free  at  the  manor.  I  would 
love  to  have  your  friends  come  there." 

Sonya  shook  her  head  and  remained  firm,  not 
choosing,  however,  to  explain  that  her  friends  would 
not  love  to  go  there. 

"I  haven't  one  girl  friend  in  Russia  1"  said  Marion 
disconsolately.  "I  thought  you  and  I  could  be — but 
you  don't  seem  to  feel  that  way." 

"Because  I  won't  give  up  my  independence?  My 
dear,  that's  absurd!  You  appeal  to  me  strongly.  I 
like  you.  I  will  probably  love  you.  Come  as  often 
as  you  will — every  morning — and  I  will  talk  Lettish 
to  you  while  I  sew." 

They  drifted  into  a  language  lesson  that  afternoon 


222  THE     CHASM 

over  their  tea.  Sonya  gave  the  words  "glass,"  "lem 
on,"  "sugar,"  "spoon,"  and  so  on,  as  she  used  each 
object.  She  pointed  to  herself  and  said  "I" — to 
Marion  and  said  "you,"  and  by  actions  taught  such 
phrases  as  "I  rise  from  my  chair,"  "I  walk,"  "I  roll 
a  cigarette,"  "Will  you  roll  yourself  a  cigarette?" 
and  "Have»a  match."  It  was  a  game  that  called  out 
the  most  pleasurable  play  of  invention  and  imitation. 
Words  of  any  language  but  Lettish  were  barred. 

They  were  laughing  over  Sonya's  imitation 
"sneeze,"  when  the  bell  over  the  shop  door  set  up  its 
violent  jangle.  Sonya  sprang  up,  closed  the  divan 
book  chest,  ran  to  the  lithograph  on  the  partition, 
drew  it  back  from  the  peep-hole,  and  saw — the  in 
tersecting  head-line  and  fate-line  of  a  man's  hand. 

She  started  back  in  alarm,  stood  one  instant,  then 
snatched  a  lead  pencil  from  her  hair  and  jabbed  it 
viciously  through  the  knot-hole.  There  was  a  yowl 
from  beyond  the  partition,  and  also  an  unobstructed 
view  through  the  peep-hole.  Sonya  availed  herself 
of  it,  and  then  opened  the  door.  "I  might  have 
known  that  was  one  of  your  small  boy  tricks!"  said 
she. 

"Sonya,  you  devil,  you've  crucified  me!"  called  a 
cheerful  barytone.  "I  shall  die  of  lead  poisoning. 
Why  the  mischief  do  you  have  such  sharp  pencils? 
I  always  suspected  you  of  being  a  remarkable  woman, 

— but  now "  The  speaker  stopped  short  in  the 

doorway  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  elegant  visitor 
within. 

The  elegant  visitor  was  making  a  heroic  struggle 
not  to  laugh  in  the  young  man's  face. 

"Countess  de  Hohenfels,"  said  Sonya  in  her  state- 


THE    CHASM 

liest  manner,  "allow  me  to  present  Professor  Alex 
ander  Bratavzinsky,  Doctor  of  Philosophy,  instructor 
of  the  youth  of  Zhergan,  nephew  of  the  eminent 
magistrate  A.  Bratavzinsky,  Police  Intendant  of 
Mitau." 

"Bahl"  said  Bratavzinsky.    "Give  me  some  tea." 

"According  to  the  most  recent  usage  in  polite  so 
ciety,  Sasha,"  said  Sonya  didactically,  "the  proper 
formula  to  use  in  acknowledging  an  introduction  to 
a  lady  is  not  'Bah!'" 

"In  polite  society  young  women  no  longer  per 
forate  callers  with  lead-pencils,  nor  introduce  them 
with  allusions  to  their  disreputable  relatives.  I  am 
happy  to  meet  you,  Countess  de  Hohenfels,  and  trust 
you  will  overlook  these  little  provincialisms  of  our 
hostess." 

"Her  methods  seem  effective,"  observed  Marion. 

"I  consider  them  too  pointed,"  maintained  Bratav 
zinsky,  glancing  at  his  hand.  "Sonya,  do  I  get  tea 
or  do  I  not?" 

"Not  unless  you  go  knock  on  Dr.  Grenning's  door, 
and  ask  him  to  join  us." 

"All  right,"  mumbled  Bratavzinsky.  He  glanced 
with  lazy  regret  at  the  back  wall.  Grenning's  rooms 
being  on  the  other  side  of  it,  he  could  easily  have 
been  summoned  by  certain  taps — the  "talk  of  the 
walls"  used  in  prison.  The  status  of  the  Countess 
de  Hohenfels  was  sufficiently  defined.  She  was  well 
enough  known  to  let  her  see  the  use  of  the  peep 
hole,  but  Sonya  did  not  care  to  have  her  hear  the 
signals  through  the  wall. 

Unlocking  a  door  into  a  corridor,  Bratavzinsky 
went  out,  returning  after  several  minutes.  "That 


THE    CHASM 

Grenning  insisted  on  taking  my  blood,"  he  com 
plained.  "He's  putting  it  'still  alive'  on  slides  in  his 
new  high-power  microscope  and  exhibiting  it." 

"To  whom?"  asked  Sonya. 

"Nachman  Kaminsky  and  Trina  Ronke.  He  wants 
you  and  your  friend  to  come  in  and  look  at  it.  I 
assure  you  it's  very  superior  blood.  It  has  all  kinds 
of  astonishing  things  in  it." 

"How  interesting!"  said  Marion,  ready  to  go. 

"Ask  him  to  bring  the  microscope  and  Kaminsky 
in  here,"  said  Sonya,  " — where  we  can  all  have  tea 
while  he  tells  us  about  phagocytes  and  things." 

"How  about  Trina?" 

"Her  too — of  course.  Isn't  it  lucky  I  stabbed 
you?" 

Bratavzinsky  went  out  posing  as  a  martyr  to  cold 
blooded  scientific  curiosity. 

"Trina  Ronke  is  the  mayor's  daughter,"  explained 
Sonya.  Through  subtle  intimation  understood  of 
women  Marion  knew  that  Sonya  did  not  like  Trina. 

Bratavzinsky  came  back  presently  with  Grenning 
and  Kaminsky  carrying  the  microscope  and  its  ac 
cessories. 

"Where's  Trina?"  asked  Sonya. 

"She  couldn't  stay,"  explained  Dr.  Grenning.  He 
was  a  man  of  more  than  middle  height  with  well- 
trimmed  beard  parted  in  the  middle,  gray  eyes, 
slightly  stooping  shoulders,  large  hands,  a  peculiar 
swing  in  walking,  and  a  rich  bass  voice  which  he 
seemed  inclined  to  use  as  little  as  possible.  He  was 
the  only  physician  in  Zhergan,  and  did  an  enormous 
amount  of  work  for  very  little  pay. 

Nachman  Kaminsky  was  the  Jewish  notary  who 


THE     CHASM 

had  his  office  across  the  corridor — a  small  man  with 
beautiful  eyelashes,  hands  and  voice.  He  had  ob 
tained  a  costly  legal  education  in  St.  Petersburg, 
found  himself  excluded  from  practice  by  a  new  rul 
ing  against  the  Jews,  •  and  was  reduced  to  writing 
letters  and  drawing  contracts  for  illiterate  people 
of  his  blood.  He  also  ran  a  sort  of  school  for  Jew 
ish  children.  His  father  was  one  of  the  leading 
rabbis  of  Riga,  but  Nachman  was  an  atheist. 

When  the  microscope  was  set  up  and  Marion  was 
looking  into  it,  Kaminsky  began  to  act  as  barker  for 
the  show,  announcing  "the  blue  blood  of  Bratavzin- 
sky  now  on  exhibition!  On  the  coverslip  of  this 
microscope,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  now  behold 
thousands  of  living  animal  cells.  Among  the  red 
corpuscles  which  look  like  copecks  but  unfortunately 
are  not,  you  will  observe  big  white  corpuscles.  Those 
are  the  police  of  the  body,  the  military  caste  in  blood 
society.  The  large  one  near  the  center  of  the  field 
is  Police  Intendant  of  the  Carotid  Artery." 

"I  protest!"  said  Bratavzinsky.  "I  won't  have 
any  police  intendant  in  my  blood.  And  I  appeal  to 
Grenning.  Have  I  got  any  carotid  artery  in  the  mid 
dle  of  my  hand?" 

"No,  but  don't  interrupt  Kaminsky's  eloquence 
with  mere  facts." 

"I  am  assured  by  that  eminent  bloodist,  Dr.  Ferdi 
nand  Grenning,  that  the  red  corpuscles  of  human 
blood  are  entirely  without  nucleus,  while  a  percentage 
of  the  red  corpuscles  of  equus  asinus  have  a  nucleus. 
Since  the  specimen  of  blood  before  you  does  contain 
a  percentage  of  nucleated  red  cells,  we  are  forced, 
however  unwillingly,  to  the  conclusion  that  the  living 


226  THE     CHASM 

specimen  from  which  this  blood  is  taken  is  a  donkey." 

"I  wouldn't  have  to  take  a  microscope,  Kaminsky," 
observed  Sasha  judicially,  "to  find  that  out  about 
you." 

"Neat!"  said  Grenning,  chuckling. 

Marion  looked  up  at  Bratavzinsky  and  laughec) 
appreciatively,  her  eyes  brimming  with  fun. 

"Lovely!"  said  Sonya,  and  gave  him  a  glass  of 
tea. 

"Annihilated!"  groaned  Kaminsky.  "And  by 
Sasha!  Grenning:  get  me  some  cyanide  of  potas 
sium." 

Grenning  spoke  to  Marion.  "Here  is  a  wet  slide 
with  some  of  Bratavzinsky's  blood  that  ought  to 
show  tubercular  germs." 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Bratavzinsky. 

"I've  just  put  them  in,"  said  Grenning.  "I'm 
hoping  they're  still  alive  in  spite  of  a  little  stain. 
Perhaps  we  can  find  white  cells  eating  them."  Look 
ing  into  the  instrument,  he  slowly  turned  the  thumb 
screws.  "Good  luck,"  he  said.  "In  the  upper  right- 
hand  corner — perhaps  you  can  see  that  white  cell 
starting  to  suck  in  a  germ — just  a  little  pink  line." 

Marion  looked  and  saw  it — with  awe  and  wonder 
at  that  revelation  of  the  cryptic  process.  It  remind 
ed  her  of  the  emotion  she  had  felt  in  looking 
through  Walt  Bradfield's  lens  at  the  marriage  of 
pollen  and  pistil  in  the  Hillcrest  conservatory. 

"I  call  that  a  battle  worth  fighting,"  said  Gren 
ning.  "There  is  a  military  caste  worth  having.  If 
these  co-operative  citizens  of  the  blood  should 
imitate  our  present  society,  the  white  cells  would  be 
sucking  the  substance  from  the  red." 


THE    CHASM 

"That's  a  beauty,  Grenning,"  said  Kaminsky. 

Marion  looked  up  from  the  lens  and  met  the 
steady  eyes  of  Grenning.  "Even  bacteriology!" 
she  murmured. 

"So  you  understand." 

She  was  perceiving  Fedya's  failure  to  read  all  the 
minute  notes  in  the  score  of  the  musician  nature. 
He  had  ears  only  for  the  primitive  vital  theme  an 
nounced  in  the  individual  animal  cell  absorbing  the 
protoplasm  of  its  organic  fellows.  The  later  theme 
of  infinite  richness  developed  in  the  social  cell  he 
had  failed  to  find. 


IV 

IN  Sonya's  circle,  Marion  found  what  she  had 
vainly  looked  for  in  the  high  society  of  St. 
Petersburg.  She  recognized  among  these  free- 
souled  people  a  bond  like  that  between  her  ten 
"spirits"  at  Vassar — an  interest  in  things  of  the 
mind  and  a  comradeship  which  frequently  exist  in 
youths  of  college  age,  but  do  not  frequently  survive 
the  atmosphere  and  conditions  of  modern  bourgeois 
society.  She  knew,  however,  that  she  was  not 
quite  of  this  group,  that  they  had  other  standards 
and  aspirations  than  hers.  Things  were  understood 
between  them  which  she  did  not  understand.  She 
was  half  conscious  of  her  desire  to  make  them  stop 
looking  upon  her  as  an  outsider. 

Thanks  to  the  hour  of  Lettish  every  morning,  she 
and  Sonya  grew  to  be  close  friends — in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  Sonya  would  not  spend  the  night  at  the 
manor  or  even  accept  an  invitation  to  dinner. 

Sometimes  at  Sonya's  she  encountered  Trina 
Ronke,  a  heavy,  brown-haired  girl  whose  mouth 
often  drooped  abnormally  at  the  corners,  and  who 
gave  the  impression  of  being  too  acutely  aware  of 
the  Countess's  rank  to  accept  her  as  a  human  being. 

Fritz  Dumpe,  the  plump  and  rosy  mail-carrier, 
whom  Marion  rechristened  Dumpling,  would  stop 

228 


THE    CHASM 

and  joke  with  Sonya,  and  tell  the  news,  and  talk 
Lettish  with  the  Countess.  She  soon  progressed 
enough  to  stop  every  day  or  two  as  she  drove  by 
the  smithy  and  talk  with  Yan  Sarin,  the  foreman, 
whose  fine,  hard  face  a  sculptor  would  have  wished 
to  reproduce  in  bronze.  He  reminded  Marion  of  a 
certain  frescoed  figure  of  Michael  Angelo's  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel.  She  took  pleasure  in  saying  things 
like  this  about  Sarin  to  Captain  Sikorsky,  who  was 
pink  and  white  and  soft  and  too  obviously  trying  to 
impress  her  with  his  graces. 

One  day  the  American  was  struck  by  a  curious 
exclamation  of  Sonya's.  They  were  talking  of  mar 
riage,  and  something  Sonya  said  caused  Marion  to 
ask  if  she  did  not  intend  to  marry. 

"Marry  in  Russia !"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "Bring 
a  child  into  Russia  1" 

Marion  did  not  feel  the  full  force  of  that.  She 
said  she  herself  wanted  children,  but  later,  in  an 
other  year  or  two. 

The  only  one  of  the  Zhergan  group  to  set  foot 
in  the  manor  was  Nachman  Kaminsky.  He  came 
to  see  Count  Feodor  on  behalf  of  a  poor  Jewish 
family  who  owed  rent  on  a  one-roomed  cabin.  The 
Count  tried  to  refer  him  to  Churisnok,  but  Kamin 
sky  explained  that  this  was  an  appeal  from  Churis- 
nok's  already  announced  intention  to  evict.  De 
Hohenfels  said  since  he  could  not  manage  the  whole 
estate  at  all  times  it  would  be  illogical  to  interfere 
in  one  isolated  case.  Finally  he  took  refuge  in  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  the  owner  of  the  estate.  It 
belonged  to  the  Countess. 

Kaminsky  went  to  the  Countess.     She  explained 


230  THE    CHASM 

that  her  ownership  was  merely  nominal.  She  could 
not  overrule  Churisnok  without  recognizing  the 
reality  of  her  title. 

His  mind  full  of  the  misery  of  that  sick  woman, 
those  hungry  children,  that  man  legally  excluded 
from  nearly  every  occupation,  Kaminsky  was  dis 
gusted  with  the  shifting  of  responsibility  back  and 
forth  between  the  Count  and  Countess.  He  told  her 
so,  and  took  pleasure  in  describing  the  condition 
of  scores  of  people  on  her  estate.  He  told  her  of 
miserable  hovels,  unfit  for  the  housing  of  cattle, 
for  which  she  was  drawing  rent  from  human  beings. 
He  told  her  of  an  old  Lett  and  his  wife  who  had 
just  sold  their  last  cow  to  pay  the  rent,  of  families 
so  poor  they  could  afford  but  one  wooden  spoon — 
though  a  wooden  spoon  cost  only  three  copecks — 
of  babies  born  and  wrapped  in  newspapers — the 
only  clothes  their  mothers  could  get  for  them. 

She  stopped  him  by  giving  him  the  money  to  give 
his  clients  to  pay  Churisnok  to  return  to  her;  but  she 
knew  well  enough  how  far  solving  the  rent-problem 
for  one  family  for  two  months  was  from  solving  the 
problem  of  five  hundred  impoverished  tenant  fami 
lies  paying  rent  twelve  times  a  year.  Ownership 
of  the  Zhergan  estate  became  repugnant  to  her  on 
new  grounds. 

She  went  to  Fedya  and  told  him  she  wished  to 
transfer  the  property  back  to  him,  but  he  would  not 
consent,  giving  as  his  reason  the  opinion  her  father 
would  necessarily  have  of  that. 

Count  Feodor  was  growing  bored  and  discon 
tented.  His  imaginative  emotion,  capable  of  being 
stirred  by  whatever  he  could  interpret  as  tending  up 


THE     CHASM  231 

beyond  life's  present  level,  was  finding  little  food 
in  the  life  of  Russia  as  revolution  and  anti-revolu 
tion  were  revealing  it.  St.  Petersburg  had  given 
up  fish  on  account  of  the  masses  of  soldiers'  bodies 
thrown  into  the  sea  after  the  betrayal  of  the  revolu 
tionary  design  of  the  troops  in  Kronstadt  and  Svea- 
bourg. 

One  day  Marion  said  to  him :  "We,  with  no  neces 
sary  work,  are  almost  as  badly  off  as  the  muzhiks 
with  too  much.  We  grow  blue  and  aimless  because 
there  is  nothing  we  have  to  do.  The  way  we  spend 
our  hours  has  no  relation  to  the  food  we  eat,  the 
clothes  we  wear,  the  rooms  we  live  in.  I  am  be 
ginning  to  believe  there  must  be  such  a  relation  if 
our  souls  are  not  to  be  vague  and  our  lives  unreal." 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  been  reading  too  much 
Tolstoi  lately,  and  averred  that  for  his  part  he  had 
long  since  passed  the  point  where  the  industry  of 
the  ditch-diggers  shamed  him. 

She  said  no  more,  but  contrasted  the  zest,  cheer 
fulness  and  interest  in  things  which  filled  the  group 
at  Sonya's  with  the  boredom  of  Hohenfels,  Tschulit- 
sky,  and  Sikorsky.  Hohenfels  was  reading  a  great 
deal  but  not  creatively,  not  selectively,  not  in  the 
light  of  any  purpose  of  his  own.  He  was  falling 
into  the  vice  of  the  reading  idler.  For  lack  of 
anything  better  he  spent  most  of  his  evenings  at 
cards  with  the  officers,  generally  winning  from 
Tschulitsky  and  losing  to  Sikorsky.  There  was  a 
different  lieutenant  in  command  of  the  headquarters 
guard  each  week,  but  Tschulitsky  and  Sikorsky  they 
had  always  with  them. 

Knowing  Dr.  Grenning  would  be  a  more  inter- 


THE    CHASM 

esting  companion  for  her  husband,  Marion  wrote 
him  a  note  inviting  him  to  dinner.  She  was  sur 
prised  and  hurt  at  Grenning's  answer,  received  next 
day,  in  which  he  regretted  that  certain  circumstances 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  accept  an  invitation  to 
the  manor. 

A  day  or  so  later  she  met  him  as  he  was  coming 
from  his  office  to  the  street  in  front  of  Sonya's.  She 
bowed  coldly  to  him,  and  was  going  on  in,  but  he 
stopped  her  and  begged  her  not  to  interpret  his 
refusing  her  dinner  invitation  as  an  indication  of 
lack  of  regard. 

"I  am  not  overeasily  offended,"  said  she,  "but  it 
happens  I  never  before  received  so  singular  a  note 
of  regret." 

"There  are  people  with  whom  a  man  chooses  to 
avoid  even  such  small  insincerities  as  pleading  a 
previous  engagement  when  he  has  none,"  said  Gren- 
ning.  "You  will  not  be  offended  at  my  taking  you 
for  such  a  person." 

"No,  Dr.  Grenning,  that  won't  quite  do,"  said 
Marion.  "In  such  matters  one  must  give  either  con 
ventional  excuses  or  real  reasons,  and  you  did 
neither." 

"Well,  you  are  right.  It's  not  just  in  my  line, 
but  I  should  have  written  a  polite  prevarication." 

"Why  is  it  impossible  to  you  to  accept  an  invita 
tion  to  my  house?"  She  spoke  impatiently. 

"Don't  you  really  know?" 

"I  do  not." 

"It  is  because  I  do  not  care  to  break  bread  with 
professional  murderers."  His  gray  eyes  were 
square  on  hers. 


THE    CHASM  233 

She  returned  his  look  for  a  moment,  but  it  be 
came  uncomfortable  and  she  looked  away.  His 
opinion  that  his  remark  was  justified  was  stronger 
than  hers  that  it  was  not.  "I  suppose  you  mean 
Tschulitsky  and  Sikorsky." 

"The  same." 

"Are  they  really,  Doctor?  Tschulitsky  's  a  boor, 
and  Sikorsky  a — an  agreeable  fellow,  but " 

"But  they  are  professional  murderers." 

"Have  they  ever  done  anything  but  their  duty?" 

"Perhaps  not.  It's  their  duty  that's  not  to  our 
taste." 

"So  it's  the  military  profession  you  object  to — 
not  these  men  personally." 

"The  distinction  is  unreal.  You  can't  divide  a 
man  from  his  function.  The  agreeable  Sikorsky  last 
October  ordered  young  Juraw  taken  from  his  bed 
at  night — a  boy  of  sixteen — and  had  him  shot  in  the 
street  for  refusing  to  tell  where  his  brother  Martin, 
the  revolutionary  leader,  was.  Tschulitsky  ordered 
his  Cossacks  to  take  my  friend  Chelms,  the  finest 
soul  in  Russia,  out  of  his  schoolroom  and  shoot  him. 
It  was  done — in  front  of  Chelms's  pupils." 

"Abominable!"  exclaimed  Marion.  "But  there 
must  have  been  some  reason,  Doctor.  Your  friend 
must  have  been  a  revolutionist." 

"Oh!"  said  Grenning  with  a  sardonic  smile.  "I 
had  almost  forgotten  I  was  talking  with  the  Countess 
de  Hohenfels.  For  the  same  crime  your  soldiers 
will  have  to  kill  thirty  million  Russians.  However, 
they  have  gone  at  the  job  cheerfully.  Perhaps  they 
will  succeed.  At  least  they  will  destroy  all  those 
who  are  capable  of  leading  Russia  out  of  hell." 


THE     CHASM 

For  the  first  time  Marion  saw  clearly  the  nature 
of  the  gulf  that  separated  her  from  the  Zhergan 
"spirits."  Her  first  thought  was  that  if  they  were 
active  revolutionists  it  might  be  well  for  her  to  be  a 
little  more  discreet  about  cultivating  their  acquaint 
ance. 

"If  you  have  any  curiosity  to  see  how  and  for  what 
things  men  are  killed  in  Russia,"  added  Grenning, 
"just  repeat  my  remarks  to  Tschulitsky — or  to  the 
amiable  Sikorsky." 

"You  don't  mean ?" 

"I  would  join  Chelms." 

"For  a  remark  made  to  me  privately?  Without 
a  trial?" 

Grenning  laughed.  "Since  last  October,"  he  said, 
"fifty  thousand  people  have  been  killed  by  sword 
expeditions  in  Courland,  Esthonia,  and  Livonia — 
not  half  of  them  in  armed  resistance.  Think  how 
much  time  it  would  take  to  'try'  all  these  groups  and 
individuals  accused  by  spies  of  treason!  Why 
bother  with  trials  when  everybody  was  guilty?  It 
was  this  whole  people  that  rose.  We  elected  our 
own  revolutionary  officers  in  every  town  and  city 
and  village  in  these  provinces.  The  Tsar's  govern 
ment  did  not  exist.  The  Baltic  Republic  was  a  fact. 
Did  you  know  this?" 

"No.     I  heard  there  were  agrarian  disorders." 

"Agrarian  disorders  that  seized  and  administered 
cities  of  a  third  of  a  million  people.  It  is  a  wonder 
ful  thing — the  modern  suppression  of  news!  But 
tell  me:  are  my  'real  reasons'  real  enough  to  win 
your  forgiveness  for  refusing  to  dine  with  the  of 
ficers?" 


THE     CHASM  235 

She  thought  a  moment.  "They  are  so  real,  Dr. 
Grenning,  that  henceforth  I  too  shall  decline  to  dine 
with  them." 

Before  he  knew  it  he  had  caught  her  hands  in  his 
and  pressed  them.  "Don't  tell  them  why,"  warned 
he.  He  turned  quickly,  and  without  looking  back, 
went  down  the  street,  his  head  bent  forward,  his 
shoulders  stooping  a  little,  a  peculiar  swing  in  his 
walk. 


THE  Countess  lunched  in  her  own  rooms  after 
her  talk  with  Grenning  and  invited  Count 
Feodor  to  dine  there  with  her,  Weary  of 
Tschulitsky,  he  did:  and  that  evening  she  succeeded 
in  reviving  his  interest  in  "The  Islands  of  the  Neva." 
The  officers  had  to  content  themselves  with  a  three- 
handed  card  game. 

Sikorsky,  who  had  been  feeling  his  way  toward  an 
intrigue  with  the  Countess,  at  first  attributed  her 
retreat  to  her  rooms  to  her  dislike  of  Tschulitsky; 
but  her  frigid  manner  next  morning  when  he  con 
trived  to  meet  her  on  the  terrace,  discouraged  him. 
That  night  when  De  Hohenfels  absented  himself  for 
the  second  time  from  the  card  game,  the  Adjutant 
observed  to  Tschulitsky  that  it  was  plain  they  had 
overstayed  their  welcome.  He  began  to  talk  about 
the  three  blooming  daughters  of  Mayor  Ronke,  sug 
gesting  that  under  certain  circumstances  the  house 
of  Ronke,  in  spite  of  inferior  service  and  cuisine, 
might  be  a  pleasanter  residence  than  the  manor. 

The  idea  took  root  in  Tschulitsky's  mind.  He  re 
membered  some  official  business  that  took  him  next 
morning  to  the  Mayor's  house  in  town. 

Before  Count  Feodor  was  out  of  bed  the  forester 
236 


THE     CHASM  237 

of  the  estate,  Robert  Guibet,  came  in  from  his  cabin 
in  the  forest,  insisted  on  seeing  the  barin  at  once, 
and  being  admitted  to  De  Hohenfels's  bedroom,  re 
ported  that  the  night  before,  cutting  through  the 
woods  from  the  village  of  Medin,  he  had  come  upon 
the  camp  of  an  armed  band  of  fifty  or  sixty  Brothers 
of  the  Woods  not  more  than  five  versts  from  the 
manor. 

De  Hohenfels  dressed  and  went  to  Tschulitsky's 
room,  but  found  he  had  already  gone  to  town.  When 
he  came  back,  about  eleven  o'clock,  Count  Feodor 
told  him  of  the  forester's  report,  and  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  commandant  would  immediately 
send  an  expedition  to  clean  out  the  revolutionists. 

Looking  from  their  windows  after  luncheon, 
Count  Feodor  and  Marion  saw  that  the  tents  of 
the  headquarters  guard  were  struck,  their  army 
wagons  loaded,  and  the  men  formed  in  heavy  march 
ing  order. 

"Are  they  going  to  attack  the  revolutionists  now?" 
exclaimed  Marion. 

De  Hohenfels  supposed  so. 

Presently  the  horses  of  the  officers  and  of  their 
orderlies  were  brought  around  from  the  stable. 

"Is  Tschulitsky  going  himself?"  wondered  De 
Hohenfels.  His  interest  was  aroused  to  the  point 
of  going  down  to  find  out.  As  he  went  out  on  the 
terrace  he  turned  and  saw  Sikorsky  coming  out  of 
the  house. 

"The  Commandant  has  decided  we  should  not 
impose  longer  on  your  hospitality,  Count,"  said 
Sikorsky.  "We  are  transferring  headquarters  to 
town.  Please  express  my  regret  to  the  Countess 


238  THE     CHASM 

that  I  have  not  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her 
lately — even  to  thank  her  for  our  entertainment." 

"Tschulitsky  might  have  had  the  decency  to  say 
he  was  going,"  said  Hohenfels,  scowling. 

"The  decision  was  reached  very  unexpectedly  only 
an  hour  ago." 

"That  is  since  I  told  him  of  that  band  here  in  the 
woods  at  our  door!"  exclaimed  Hohenfels. 

Tschulitsky  came  out  of  the  house  booted  and 
spurred  and  followed  by  an  orderly. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  leave  a  guard  for  these 
premises,  Tschulitsky?"  demanded  De  Hohenfels. 

"No." 

"Then  you  should  have  given  me  notice.  I  could 
have  had  one  sent  from  Mitau.  In  view  of  the 
particular  danger  you  know  threatens  this  point  your, 
withdrawing  the  guard  to-day  looks  like  deliberate 
violation  of  your  duty  to  protect  life  and  property." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  demanded 
Tschulitsky.  "Come  on,  Sikorsky." 

"Fortunately  the  telegraph  is  working  between 
here  and  Mitau,"  said  Hohenfels,  as  the  officers 
mounted. 

Sikorsky  narrowed  his  eyes,  wondering  how  much 
influence  Hohenfels  had  in  Mitau,  and  looked  dis 
approvingly  at  Tschulitsky. 

Seeing  the  troops  move  off  toward  town,  Marion's 
pleasure  at  being  rid  of  the  professional  murderers 
was  mingled  with  apprehension.  She  wanted  to  see 
Grenning,  thinking  he  might  be  in  communication 
with  the  band  in  the  woods  and  be  able  to  tell  her 
whether  there  was  danger  to  the  manor.  Not  wish 
ing  to  leave  Fedya  out  there,  she  asked  him  to  drive 


THE     CHASM  239 

in  town  with  her.    He  had  her  leave  him  at  the  tele 
graph  office. 

"It  will  be  impossible  to  get  any  sort  of  protec 
tion  to-night,"  he  said  as  she  left  him.  "You'd  bet 
ter  invite  yourself  to  spend  the  night  with  the  Prin 
cess  Demidoff." 

"And  how  about  you?" 

"I  may  stay  at  the  inn.  There  are  half  a  dozen' 
officers  there.  I'm  told  it's  a  jolly  crowd." 

"I  may — "  began  Marion,  starting  to  say  she 
might  find  out  there  was  no  danger  to  the  manor,  "I 
may  stay  with  Sonya." 

She  sent  Davuidka  with  the  droshky  to  the  inn 
stable.  As  she  walked  toward  Grenning's  she  was 
considering  whether  to  see  him  first,  or  Sonya,  when 
she  perceived  the  girl  in  the  act  of  locking  her  shop- 
door  from  the  outside. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  gone  long?"  called  Marion. 

"Well,  well!"  said  Sonya,  looking  around.  "No. 
In  fact  I'm  not  going  at  all."  She  unlocked  the 
door.  "Come  in,"  she  said.  "I  was  just  starting 
for  the  manor  to  see  you." 

"Actually?"  exclaimed  Marion,  following  her  in. 

"I  want  you  to  stay  here  with  me  to-night,"  said 
the  girl.  "Will  you?  Your  accommodations  will  be 
primitive,  but " 

"Nonsense !  It  will  be  a  lark.  But  what  makes 
you  want  me  to  stay  with  you — to-night?" 

"I  have  my  own  mysterious  reasons,"  smiled 
Sonya. 

"Won't  to-morrow  night  do  as  well?" 

"Oh,  you  can  stay  then,  too." 

"Won't  you  let  me  drive  you  out  to  the  manor 


240  THE     CHASM 

and  spend  to-night  with  me  there?"  asked  Marion, 
watching  Sonya's  expression. 

"I  can't — really  I  can't.  Besides — you  practically 
accepted  my  invitation,  and  now  I  going  to  hold  you 
to  it." 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  said  Marion.  "It 
may  make  a  difference  in  your  unwillingness  to  come 
to  the  manor.  The  officers  left  there  this  after 
noon." 

"They  did!"  exclaimed  Sonya.  "Where  did  they 
go?" 

"Tschulitsky  moved  his  headquarters  into  town. 
I  don't  know  where.  He  took  his  guard  with  him — 
leaving  us  very  much  at  the  mercy  of  our  Brothers 
of  the  Woods." 

"Won't  Tschulitsky  be  at  the  manor  to-night?" 
demanded  Sonya. 

"That  seems  to  disarrange  some  plans,"  thought 
Marion.  "He  is  already  here  in  Zhergan,"  she  re 
peated. 

"Take  off  your  things,"  said  Sonya.  "Excuse  me 
a  minute.  I  want  to  ask  Dr.  Grenning  to  take  sup 
per  with  us."  She  unlocked  the  door  into  the  corri 
dor,  and  went  quickly  to  Grenning's. 

Marion  sat  down,  her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on 
the  floor.  "She  has  gone  to  tell  Grenning  that 
Tschulitsky  is  not  to  be  at  the  manor  to-night,"  she 
meditated.  "She  was  going  out  especially  to  get  me 
away  from  there  to-night.  They  hate  Tschulitsky. 
And  there  are  fifty  or  sixty  of  them — as  many  as  the 
headquarters  guard."  Her  conclusion  was  that  per 
haps  the  withdrawal  of  Tschulitsky  and  his  guard 
which  had  so  alarmed  them  might  be  the  very  thing 


THE     CHASM  241 

to  save  the  manor  from  an  attack  which  would  other 
wise  have  been  made. 

Sonya  came  back. 

"Did  the  Doctor  accept  your  invitation  to  sup 
per?"  asked  Marion. 

Sonya  looked  guilty. 

"You  never  asked  him!"  thought  Marion.  "You 
were  too  deeply  interested  in  telling  him  about 
Tschulitsky.  But  I  am  all  wrong  unless  Dr. 
Grenning  goes  out  very  soon  to  get  word  to  the 
brethren."  She  listened  for  his  footsteps  in  the 
corridor. 

"I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  no  more  sewing  to 
day  and  hate  to  go  back  to  it,"  said  Sonya.  "Shall 
we  do  some  Lettish?" 

Marion  agreed,  but  hearing  a  door  open  and 
close  and  someone  passing  along  the  corridor,  she 
jumped  up,  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  It  was 
Grenning. 

"How  are  you,  Doctor?"  she  called. 

He  stopped  uncertainly,  returned  her  greeting,  and 
was  going  on. 

"Are  you  in  a  great  hurry?"  asked  Marion  sweet- 

ly. 

"Why,  yes,  I  am  rather." 

"But  we'll  have  you  here  with  us  at  supper,  won't 
we?" 

"Why-uh,  you'll  be  here,  will  you?  I  think  I'll 
be  back  by  then,  in  which  case — I  shall  be  charmed." 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  your  patient''  she 
said.  He  saw  the  door  close  slowly,  narrowing  to  a 
crack,  pausing  an  instant,  and  then  concealing  her 
smiling  eyes  and  mouth. 


THE    CHASM 

"She  knows  too  much,"  thought  he,  as  he  turned 
toward  the  street.  "I  have  altogether  too  much  of 
an  impulse  to  confide  in  her.  But  I  hope  and  think 
she  will  not  tell." 

Of  course  Marion  stayed  at  Sonya's  that  night. 
Grenning  was  there  for  supper  and  the  evening.  She 
told  him  as  though  she  did  not  know  he  knew  it  of 
the  withdrawal  of  the  guard  from  the  manor,  and 
asked  him  if  he  thought  there  was  any  danger  of 
attack. 

"I  think  not,"  he  said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has 
no  special  knowledge.  He  seemed  disturbed — prob 
ably  at  the  idea  of  her  possessing  information  lead 
ing  her  to  ask  that  question. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  they  talked  of  books, 
people,  philosophies.  Marion  told  them  in  some  de 
tail  of  her  friend  Walt  Bradfield,  his  writing,  and  his 
agitation  among  the  workingmen  of  Moline.  Sonya 
and  Grenning  found  it  hard  to  understand  why  the 
American  workingmen  with  their  universal  and  equal 
male  suffrage — the  lack  of  which  so  handicapped 
their  European  fellows — did  not  control  the  govern 
ment,  and  through  it  the  industrial  life  of  the  United 
States. 

The  next  morning,  in  Sonya's  bed,  Marion  woke 
from  a  dreadful  dream — that  Walt  Bradfield  had 
shot  himself!  Because  he  could  not  get  work — ? 
because  of  her  marriage — ?  because  she  had  not 
written — ?  She  could  not  make  it  out,  but  somehow 
it  seemed  to  be  her  fault.  Then  she  slept  again  and 
woke  with  a  new  terror  filling  her  mind — the  feeling 
that  the  manor  had  been  burned  in  the  night — that 
something  terrible  had  happened  to  Fedya.  As  her 


THE     CHASM  243 

thoughts  cleared,  it  struck  her  as  strange  and  rash 
that  she  should  have  come  straight  to  these  revolu 
tionists,  personal  friends  though  they  were,  and  told 
them  of  the  unprotected  situation  of  her  own  home — 
which  lay  exposed  to  the  attack  of  an  armed  band 
not  one  hour's  march  away.  She  felt  as  Grenning 
had  felt  about  her  the  day  before — that  she  had 
altogether  too  much  of  an  impulse  to  confide  in 
them.  If  her  surmise  was  correct,  these  friends  of 
hers  knew  of — perhaps  had  planned — an  attack  on 
her  house  for  the  purpose  of  capturing  Tschulitsky. 
To  be  sure  they  were  going  to  get  her  away  from 
there,  but  how  about  Fedya  ?  What  if  the  activity  of 
these  friends  of  hers  had  resulted  in  his  death  in 
that  attack?  She  rose  and  began  to  dress. 

"So  early?"  murmured  Sonya,  more  than  half 
asleep. 

"I'm  worried  about  Fedya.  I  must  make  sure  he 
stayed  at  the  inn  last  night." 

Sonya  reached  under  her  pillow,  and  looked  at  a 
little  black  watch.  "He'll  be  sound  asleep,"  she 
said,  but  Marion  kept  on  dressing.  "Dear  me!"  ex 
claimed  Sonya,  jumping  up.  "You  really  must  wait 
till  I  get  you  some  tea — I  mean  coffee.  I  got  some 
especially  for  your  breakfast." 

Marion  finished  dressing,  waited  reluctantly  a 
few  minutes  for  coffee,  then  hastened  on  foot  in  the 
early  morning  to  the  Zhergan  Inn.  She  had  to 
rouse  a  man  sleeping  on  a  bench  in  his  stocking  feet, 
who  had  to  rouse  the  innkeeper,  who  escorted  her 
to  the  room  of  the  Count  de  Hohenfels.  That  gen 
tleman,  having  kept  it  up  with  the  jolly  crowd  of 
officers  until  a  very  short  time  before,  was  most  un- 


244  THE     CHASM 

appreciative  of  his  lady's  flattering  solicitude.  She 
quickly  left  him  to  resume  his  slumbers,  and  went 
back  to  Sonya's  in  a  frame  of  mind  considerably  less 
tender  and  self-reproachful. 

Of  course  that  other  dream — about  Walt — was 
equally  baseless.  Still  it  was  absurd  not  to  know 
whether  he  was  alive  or  not,  and  this  time  she  really 
did  sit  down  and  write  to  him. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me,"  she  wrote,  "for  the 
way  I  left  Moline — without  saying  goodbye?  I 
wanted  to  see  you — truly  I  did.  I  hated  to  leave 
things  so  badly — as  they  were  that  night.  I  never 
dreamed  as  I  went  out  the  door  of  Hillcrest  of  not 
seeing  you  again  and  saying  goodbye,  and  telling 
you — how  much  I  think  of  you."  The  letter  ex 
pressed  her  desire  for  his  friendship  always,  told  of 
her  sympathy  with  phases  of  Russian  life  which  she 
never  would  have  understood  had  it  not  been  for 
her  acquaintance  with  him,  described  the  group  of 
friends  she  had  found  and  asked  for  his  criticism  of 
that  doctrine  of  the  higher  race  which  so  appealed 
to  her  religious  sense.  "Does  not  the  finest  flower 
of  human  life,"  she  wrote,  " — its  superhuman  issue 
— demand  at  last  a  divided  humanity?  Must  not 
root  and  trunk  of  the  racial  tree  exist  for  the  sake 
of  blossoming  above?  The  blossoming  not  for  its 
own  sake,  but  to  bear  and  send  up  vigorously  above 
the  rest  one  favored  shoot,  tip  of  the  tree  of  life, 
to  attain  the  stage  of  evolution  next  above  the  human 
and  there  branch  richly  out.  The  idea  that  humanity 
by  sacrifice  of  what  is  lower  to  what  is  higher  in 
itself  should  create  superhumanity  lays  hold  of  me 
with  a  power  I  cannot  describe.  To  me  the  super- 


THE     CHASM  245 

race  looms  like  a  new  Messiah,  not  dreadful,  not 
hostile,  not  destined  to  destroy  us.  It  is  not  coming 
to  save  humanity  by  sacrificing  itself.  For  it  human 
ity  must  sacrifice  itself,  as  parent  does  for  child — a 
daughter-race  which  we,  the  mother-race,  must  bear 
and  nurse." 

After  addressing  her  letter  to  Walt  in  Moline, 
hoping  his  people  would  forward  it,  she  became 
absorbed  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  in  Sonya's  for 
bidden  library.  Some  of  the  propaganda  consisted 
of  what  struck  her  as  rather  mechanical  applications 
of  revolutionary  and  materialist  theories,  but  some 
of  it  was  based  on  illuminating  study  of  things  as 
they  are,  and  through  this  she  had  glimpses  of  the 
whole  design — broad  and  splendid  outlines  of  the 
freer,  finer  society  which  the  workers,  learning  and 
following  their  own  real  interests,  ought  to  develop 
along  definite  lines  out  of  the  present  society  based 
on  wage-labor.  She  wondered  if  there  was  any  way 
of  reconciling  that  with  the  letter  she  had  written 
to  Walt.  Her  own  non-proletarian  interests  and 
point  of  view  prevented  her  embracing  that  prole 
tarian  philosophy  for  herself,  but  she  did  not  see 
how  its  validity  for  the  proletarians  could  be  denied. 
Passing  into  their  power  the  world  would  without 
question  become  a  place  more  favorable  for  their 
development — the  development  of  all  but  the  chosen 
few.  She  began  to  feel  vaguely,  but  could  not,  or 
did  not  want  to,  think  out  a  flaw  somewhere  in  the 
theory  that  the  chosen  few,  the  present  ruling  class, 
could  breed  from  themselves  a  higher  race. 

While  she  sat  reading  and  thinking  Trina  Ronke 
came  in.  She  was  returning  a  book  which  she  had 


246  THE    CHASM 

smuggled  home,  and  selected  another.  As  she  went 
out  through  the  shop  with  it,  she  asked  Sonya  if  it 
was  safe  to  have  the  Countess  know  of  the  library. 

"Why?"  Sonya  asked. 

"She  might  tell  her  husband." 

"Do  you  think  the  Count  de  Hohenfels  would 
run  and  tell  the  police  about  my  books?"  said  Sonya, 
laughing,  but  Trina  Ronke  shook  her  head,  saying 
you  couldn't  tell  about  these  aristocrats.  If  anything 
came  up — making  it  important  to  destroy  her — there 
was  the  means! 

Sonya  said  nothing.  Secretly  she  felt  there  was 
more  risk  in  Trina's  possession  of  that  knowledge. 

About  noon  Davuidka .  brought  the  Countess  a 
note  from  the  Inn.  The  awakened  Feodor  asked 
her  to  take  lunch  with  him  there.  At  table  in  his 
own  rooms  he  showed  her  a  letter  from  the  Gover 
nor-General  at  Mitau  written  with  flattering  prompt 
itude  in  answer  to  his  telegram.  The  letter  stated 
that  orders  had  been  issued  the  Commandant  at 
Zhergan  immediately  to  capture  the  revolutionary 
band  located  on  the  Hohenfels  estate. 

"In  Courland,  at  least,"  commented  Count  Feo 
dor,  "one  can  still  conjure  a  little  with  the  name  De 
Hohenfels." 

"Tschulitsky  will  have  to  eat  dirt!"  gloated  Mar 
ion. 

"He  has  already.  He  called  this  morning.  Very 
respectful.  Requested  me  to  send  for  Robert  Guibet 
to  act  as  guide  tonight.  They  will  surround  the 
gang  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

He  suggested  that  until  the  marauders  were  cap- 


THE     CHASM 

tured  they  had  better  not  return  to  the  manor,  so 
Marion  went  back  after  luncheon  to  Sonya's. 

After  her  first  exultation  over  the  idea  of  hum 
bling  Tschulitsky,  she  began  to  realize  what  the  or 
ders  from  Mitau  meant.  The  killing,  wounding,  and 
capturing  of  fifty  men  was  not  in  itself  a  pleasant 
thing  to  contemplate,  and  it  was  still  less  pleasant 
to  Marion  when  she  realized  that  in  that  district  it 
would  mean  the  final  triumph  of  the  atrocious  gov 
ernment  of  the  Tsar  over  the  Baltic  Republic — the 
triumph  of  men  like  Tschulitsky  and  Sikorsky,  who 
shot  intellectual  men  and  heroic  boys  without  trial, 
over  men  like  Grenning,  Kaminsky,  and  the  clear- 
eyed  Yan  Sarin,  who  were  working  against  terrific 
odds,  for  liberty  and  democracy,  for  freedom  of 
speech  and  press,  for  better  houses,  better  wages, 
and  better  life. 

"The  manor  will  be  safer  after  the  revolutionists 
are  destroyed,"  she  thought.  It  was  that  considera 
tion  which  had  caused  Feodor  the  landlord  to  take 
such  prompt  and  effective  steps  for  their  destruc 
tion,  and  it  was  that  which  had  caused  her  instinctive 
ly  to  approve  those  steps.  But  as  she  walked  along 
the  dusty  August  streets,  catching  an  occasional 
phrase  of  Lettish  in  the  treble  voices  of  children 
playing,  it  seemed  to  her  no  admirable  thing  to  help 
the  Tsar  crush  down  the  Lettish  people  because  a 
band  of  revolutionists  might  possibly  burn  down 
one's  house.  She  probably  would  not  have  seen  that 
this  was  what  she  and  Feodor  were  doing  had  it  not 
been  for  Sonya's  books.  And  on  second  thought  it 
occurred  to  her  that  she  had  not  heard  of  any  manor 


248  THE     CHASM 

houses  being  burned  when  the  revolutionists  were  in 
control  of  the  country.  Arms  had  been  taken  forci 
bly  by  an  armed  party  from  the  Hohenfels  manor 
itself,  but  the  house  was  certainly  not  burned.  Yawn 
ing  foundations  of  small  houses  were  visible  in  and 
around  Zhergan,  but  they  had  belonged  to  revolu 
tionists  and  had  been  burned  by  troops  of  the  Tsar. 
She  had  heard  of  the  burning  of  a  house  in  the 
neighboring  village  of  Benen  by  revolutionists,  and 
of  the  shooting  of  a  man  and  two  women  among 
those  who  lived  in  it,  but  Grenning  and  Sonya  had 
told  her  that  those  three  had  been  tried  by  the  Zher 
gan  local  and  condemned  as  spies  whose  informa 
tion  to  the  government  troops  had  led  to  the  burning 
of  several  houses  and  the  summary  shooting  of  many 
men.  Marion  sighed,  and  without  reaching  any  con 
clusion,  went  back  to  Sonya's  books. 

Sasha  Bratavzinsky  came  in  at  four  o'clock  for 
tea  from  Sonya's  samovar.  Finding  the  Countess 
preoccupied,  he  talked  cheerful  nonsense  to  Sonya. 

Nachman  Kaminsky  came  in  looking  gloomy. 

Marion  asked  him  how  the  Jewish  family  was 
getting  along. 

"Your  money  paid  the  rent  for  them.  It  gave 
the  woman  a  chance  to  die  under  a  roof.  She  was 
buried  Sunday." 

"Is  it  that  that  makes  you  so  blue,  Nachman?" 
asked  Sonya. 

"No."    He  relapsed  into  silence. 

Bratavzinsky  talked  awhile,  but  could  not  resist 
the  depressing  atmosphere,  and  ran  out  of  subjects. 

"Where's  Grenning?"  asked  Kaminsky. 


THE     CHASM  249 

"He'll  probably  be  in  for  a  glass  of  tea,"  said 
Sonya.  "I  wish  he  would  come  I" 

"I  have  news,"  said  Kaminsky.  "I've  been  keep 
ing  it  to  myself  on  your  account,  Countess  de  Hohen- 
fels,  but  I  have  decided  I  want  you  to  hear  it.  I 
want  you  to  know  how  the  officers  of  the  detective 
division  of  the  police  examine  a  witness.  Yan  Kenim 
is  a  man  who  helped  govern  the  city  of  Riga  last 
summer  when  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  people.  I 
have  known  him  since  boyhood.  Six  days  ago  he 
was  arrested  in  Riga  and  taken  to  the  station  of  the 
detective  division.  Night  before  last  he  was  ex 
amined.  The  officers  who  did  it  are  Gregus,  Mik- 
heyev,  Zimmermann,  Davus,  and  Petrov.  There 
were  two  others  whom  I  shall  not  name.  They  read 
to  Kenim  a  long  list  of  crimes  allegedly  committed 
by  him,  and  demanded  a  confession,  if  not  of  all,  then 
at  least  of  a  part  of  these.  Kenim  denied  his  guilt. 
First  they  struck  blows.  Then  they  undressed  him, 
threw  him  on  a  bench,  tied  him  to  it,  gagged  his 
mouth  with  a  rag,  and  two  police  officers  began — 
first  with  rubber  whips,  then  with  wire  whips.  When 
his  back  became  swollen  they  covered  it  with  a  wet 
rag  and  kept  on.  When  he  fainted,  they  poured  cold 
water  on  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  regained  conscious 
ness,  began  again.  Then  they  untied  him,  and  threw 
sharp  pieces  of  salt  on  the  floor.  Two  of  them  raised 
him  about  five  feet  from  the  floor  and  hurled  him 
down  on  the  salt.  This  was " 

"Oh!"  groaned  Marion,  white  and  trembling. 
"What  is  the  use  of  this?" 

"If  Kenim  and  thousands  more  can  endure  the 


250  THE    CHASM 

reality  of  these  things,"  said  Kaminsky,  "you  can  en 
dure  the  telling  of  them!  I  am  sick  of  the  com 
fortable  ignorance  of  the  leisure  class.  You  don't 
want  to  know.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you,  every 
one  of  you,  who  maintain  and  profit  by  the  estab 
lished  order  have  each  your  share  in  the  torture  of 
Keniml" 

"I  do  nothing  to  maintain  the  established  order!" 
cried  Marion. 

"To  do  nothing  is  to  maintain  the  established 
order." 

She  had  no  reply. 

Kaminsky  walked  across  the  room,  sat  down  and 
paid  no  further  attention  to  anybody. 

"What  men  do  they  treat  like  this?"  Marion 
asked.  "Not  every  prisoner?" 

"Every  revolutionist  from  whose  agony  they  can 
hope  to  wring  a  confession  of  guilt  or  the  name  of  a 
comrade,"  said  Bratavzinsky.  "I  know  of  tortures 
much  worse  than  this  of  Kenim." 

"If  they  capture  this  band  in  our  forest,"  said 
Marion,  " — will  they — torture  them?" 

"Well  rather!"  Bratavzinsky  answered.  He  was 
going  to  say  more,  but  caught  an  angry  warning  look 
from  Kaminsky,  and  realized  he  had  no  business  ad 
mitting  knowledge  of  that  band. 

"Do  you  people  know  anything  about  these  Broth 
ers  of  the  Woods?"  asked  Marion. 

Kaminsky  looked  at  her.  "We  do  not,"  he  said, 
positively.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  I  have  been  told  they  are  thieves  and 
murderers,  and  if  they  are  not,  I  want  to  know  it." 

Kaminsky  and  Bratavzinsky  sat  keen  and  silent, 


THE     CHASM  251 

but  Sonya  broke  out.  "Thieves  and  murderers!" 
she  cried.  "The  very  spies  that  go  among  them  to 
betray  them  they  try  to  dissuade  from  that  work. 
They  kill  them  only  when  they  will  not  stop." 

"Anyone  can  see,"  said  Bratavzinsky,  "that  some 
where  now  there  must  be  in  hiding  thousands  of  rev 
olutionists  known  by  the  authorities  to  be  such." 

"There  is  no  need  for  me  to  hesitate,"  said  Mar 
ion.  "Whatever  you  people  choose  to  deny  or  ad 
mit,  I  know  that  if  these  men  are  thieves  and 
murderers  you  have  no  interest  in  them.  If  they 
are  revolutionists — well,  I  happen  to  know  that 
Tschulitsky  has  information  of  a  band  of  fifty  in 
camp  two  versts  east  of  the  railroad  in  our  forest. 
He  has  orders  from  Mitau  to  send  a  force  in  there 
and  capture  them  to-night." 

A  needle  falling  on  the  carpet  would  have  sounded 
loud  while  Sonya,  Sasha,  and  Kaminsky  were  realiz 
ing  that  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels  had  made  her 
self  a  revolutionary  spy. 


VI 

KAMINSKY  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  asked 
Bratavzinsky  if  he  had  seen  the  recent  ad 
dress  of  the  rector  of  the  St.  Petersburg  Uni 
versity  urging  all  poor  students  to  "let  science  and 
sedition  alone"  and  go  in  for  manual  training.  "He 
refers  to  'the  glorious  battle  against  the  revolution 
ists'  and  calls  it  'a  battle  for  truth  and  right.'  ' 

Marion  looked  at  him  curiously,  smiled  to  her 
self,  and  rose.  "There's  nothing  like  discretion," 
she  said.  She  took  her  hat  and  put  it  on  before  the 
mirror.  "I  have  some  things  to  buy,  Sonya.  I'll 
be  back  in  time  for  supper."  The  bell  over  the 
street  door  jangled  behind  her. 

"It's  a  quarter  to  five,"  said  Sonya.  "We  can 
reach  Martin  Mitrevitz  by  six.  Who  is  going?" 

"Is  Grenning  in  there?"  Kaminsky  asked.  He 
rapped  on  the  wall.  There  was  an  answering  rap 
and  presently  Grenning  came  in. 

They  told  him  the  news.  His  eyes  brightened 
when  he  heard  what  Marion  had  done. 

"Kaminsky  treated  her  as  though  she  were  a  gov 
ernment  detective,"  said  Sonya. 

"The  rest  of  you  are  too  confiding  by  half!"  pro 
tested  Kaminsky.  "Grenning  talks  to  a  woman  and 
thinks  he's  converted  her  to  the  revolution,  when  all 

252 


THE     CHASM  253 

he's  really  done  is  convert  her  to  Grenning.  Trina 
Ronke  has  no  more  business  in  your  local  than  her 
father.  She  has  her  cap  set  now  for  Sikorsky — the 
man  who  shot  young  Juraw,  and  she  knows  it.  And 
now  Sonya  and  Bratavzinsky  have  let  the  Countess 
de  Hohenfels  see  our  connection  with  Martin  Mitre- 
vitz !  Suppose  she  has  a  change  of  heart!" 

"After  she  has  once  come  square  out?"  said  Gren 
ning.  "Kaminsky:  she  has  been  leaning  our  way 
ever  since  she  came.  It's  from  deep  down  and  of 
old  and  by  temperament  with  her." 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  word  to  Martin  Mitre- 
vitz?"  asked  Bratavzinsky. 

"I  have  decided  to  have  a  sick-call  in  that  direc 
tion,"  said  Grenning. 

"See  Yan  Smika,"  suggested  Kaminsky,  " — the 
forester  of  the  Medin  estate.  He  will  know  just 
where  they  are." 

The  physician  went  to  the  stable,  harnessed  his 
horse,  and  drove  out  to  the  cabin  of  Yan  Smika, 
whom  he  found  getting  ready  to  cook  supper.  When 
he  heard  of  the  intended  attack  on  Mitrevitz,  the 
forester  put  half  a  loaf  of  black  bread  in  his  pocket 
and  took  down  his  rifle. 

"I  will  tell  Mitrevitz  in  twenty  minutes,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  you'll  have  use  for  that?"  asked 
Grenning,  nodding  toward  the  rifle. 

"There's  a  three-quarter  moon.  White  coats 
show  well." 

A  new  idea  struck  Grenning.  "I  believe  I  will  go 
with  you  to  Mitrevitz,"  he  said. 

He  and  Smika  crossed  the  road  into  the  Hohen 
fels  forest,  walked  in  silence  between  the  thick-set 


254  THE    CHASM 

pillars  of  the  pines,  and  crossed  the  railroad  which 
ran  eastward  from  Zhergan  then  turned  southwest, 
so  forming  a  giant  figure  seven  through  the  forest. 

The  revolutionary  militia  lay  near  a  spring  two 
versts  east  of  the  curve.  They  had  no  tents  or 
military  uniforms,  and  their  rifles  were  of  many 
kinds.  The  forester  and  the  physician  were  stopped 
by  an  outpost,  one  of  whom  knew  Smika  and  let  them 
pass  without  any  military  formalities. 

Martin  Mitrevitz,  a  lean,  bronzed  man  with  sev 
eral  weeks'  beard,  dressed  as  a  workingman,  asked 
them  to  share  his  supper,  such  as  it  was.  They  de 
clined,  knowing  provisions  were  scarce  in  the  camp. 

"We'll  get  away  at  once,"  said  Mitrevitz,  when 
he  heard  of  the  intended  night  attack. 

Smika  and  he  agreed  that  the  troops  would  have 
to  come  out  from  Zhergan  on  the  wagon  road  past 
the  Hohenfels  manor,  turn  to  their  left  on  the  rail 
road,  follow  it  eastward  until  it  swung  south,  and 
then  through  the  woods  to  the  camp. 

On  the  back  of  a  letter  Grenning  drew  lines  repre 
senting  the  wagon  road,  the  railroad,  and  the  camp. 
"They  will  come  up  the  railroad  in  column,  won't 
they?"  he  asked. 

"No  other  way." 

Grenning  put  lines  on  the  railroad  representing 
infantry  in  column.  "Instead  of  finding  you,  as  they 
expect,  here  in  camp  seven  versts  from  town  and  un 
prepared,"  he  said,  "suppose  they  found  you  here 
four  versts  from  town — like  this?" 

"They  would  die,"  said  Mitrevitz,  his  eye  kindling 
with  the  idea  of  the  enfilading  lines  alongside  the 
track.  "But  we  will  lie  here,  still  closer  to  town. 


THE     CHASM  255 

where  there  is  a  clearing  to  shoot  across.  Here 
they  will  not  have  begun  to  move  with  caution.  This 
will  repay  us  for  not  getting  Tschulitsky.  I  am  sorry 
for  these  men,  but  for  us  to-night  they  are  tools  of 
the  Tsar,  not  men." 

At  eight  o'clock  when  Grenning  got  back  to  Zher- 
gan  after  his  sick-call  at  Yan  Smika's,  he  found  a 
man  waiting  nervously  in  his  office  and  had  to  hasten 
out  with  him  to  attend  a  woman  in  labor.  He  looked 
in  at  Sonya's  a  moment.  She  and  Marion  sat  near 
the  table  reading  by  a  bright,  well-shaded  lamp. 

Sonya  rose  and  came  close  to  him  near  the  door. 
"What?"  said  she,  speaking  almost  inaudibly. 

"You'll  hear  firing  to-night,"  he  answered.  Then 
he  raised  his  voice.  "You  look  so  cozy  here  reading 
— I  wish  I  could  stay." 

"We  wish  so  too,"  said  Marion.  "Don't  we, 
Sonya?" 

"Indeed,"  said  the  girl  absently.  "Why  couldn't 
they  get  away?"  she  demanded,  whispering. 

"They  prefer  to  lie  in  ambush,"  he  answered,  also 
whispering,  and  then  gave  a  warning  glance  over 
his  shoulder  to  remind  her  that  he  had  an  outsider 
somewhere  there  in  the  hall  beyond  the  half-opened 
door. 

"Do  you  share  Kaminsky's  distrust  of  me,  Sonya?" 
said  Marion,  after  Grenning  had  gone. 

"No."  After  a  moment  Sonya  inclined  her  head 
back  toward  the  door  Grenning  had  just  gone  out 
of.  "Neither  does  he.  But  wouldn't  you  rather  not 
know  anything  definite  about — us?" 

"Only  this:  whether  those  men  in  the  woods  are 
warned  and  can  escape." 


256  THE     CHASM 

"Yes,  they  have  been  warned."  The  girl  glanced 
at  the  alarm  clock  on  her  dresser,  sat  down,  and 
tried  to  resume  her  reading.  Several  times  she  was 
on  the  point  of  telling  Marion  what  Grenning  had 
said,  but  did  not. 

She  did  not  keep  her  light  burning  after  ten  for 
fear  of  drawing  the  attention  of  the  police.  Thanks 
to  the  iron  gratings  of  the  windows  they  were  able 
to  let  the  cool  night  air  into  the  room.  They  could 
see  the  moonlit  silver  birches  in  the  yard  of  the 
Lutheran  church  on  the  other  side  of  the  wide,  dusty 
street.  The  lights  had  gone  out  of  the  windows, 
and  the  streets  were  deserted  save  for  an  occasional 
pair  of  lovers  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway. 

Marion  was  dropping  off  to  sleep,  when  Sonya, 
who  had  remained  sitting  near  the  window,  called  to 
her  in  a  low,  excited  voice — "Look  here!" 

Marion  sprang  to  the  window  and  saw,  coming 
down  the  street,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  so  silently  she 
would  not  have  known  they  were  passing,  the  Rus 
sian  rotnis  which  Feeder's  influence  had  started  on 
their  night  march  against  the  revolutionists^ 

"Uncanny!"  Marion  whispered.  "All  those  men, 
and  hardly  a  sound!" 

"Not  the  clink  of  a  scabbard!"  whispered  Sonya. 
"I'm  glad  the  Brothers  know!  Thanks  to  you!" 
She  put  her  arm  around  Marion  and  hugged  her. 

"I  think  there  will  be  some  profanity  when  they 
reach  that  camp,"  Marion  said.  She  chuckled  hap 
pily  at  the  thought  of  having  averted  the  tragedy. 

Sonya's  conscience  hurt  her  a  little  for  leaving 
Marion  in  ignorance  of  the  ambush.  "How  many 
of  those  men  are  making  their  last  march?"  she 


THE     CHASM  257 

thought  as  the  last  man  passed  from  sight  beyond  the 
corner  of  the  shop. 

There  was  a  chill  in  the  night  air,  but  the  soldiers 
did  not  wear  the  white  coats  Smika  had  said  would 
show  well,  and  Captain  Byeletsky  had  made  the  men 
blue  their  rifle  barrels  that  afternoon  lest  the  glint 
of  them  should  be  seen  in  the  woods  from  the 
enemy's  camp. 

With  Robert  Guibet  knowing  every  tree  in  the 
woods,  Byeletsky  expected  to  close  in  on  that  camp 
from  all  sides  and  get  every  man.  The  main  thing 
he  feared  was  that  the  rifle  of  some  revolutionary 
sympathizer  among  his  own  men  would  go  off  acci 
dentally  near  the  camp.  He  halted  his  force  on  the 
road  outside  the  town,  called  the  sergeants  of  his 
two  companies  together,  and  gave  them  orders  to 
shoot  in  his  tracks  anyone  to  whom  this  accident 
happened.  The  sergeants  told  the  men. 

The  column  left  the  wagon  road  and  turned  east 
ward  upon  the  railroad  track.  Reaching  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  Byeletsky  sent  out  flankers  to  move 
through  the  woods  parallel  with  the  railroad  abreast 
of  his  advance  guard. 

This  was  a  thing  Mitrevitz  had  not  foreseen.  He 
and  his  comrades  lying  concealed  behind  trees  and 
in  shadow  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing  in  an  open 
irregular  line  would  not  be  seen  by  the  small  advance 
guard  moving  along  the  track,  but  these  four  ad 
vancing  figures  out  fifty  and  a  hundred  arshin  to  the 
right  and  left — they  must  infallibly  run  into  the  lines 
of  his  ambush.  How  keep  them  from  giving  the 
alarm — and  time  for  those  two  hundred  men  to  de 
ploy  against  his  fifty? 


258  THE     CHASM 

Mitrevitz  picked  two  men,  explained  the  danger 
to  them,  and  told  them  each  to  take  one  of  those 
men,  keep  square  in  front  of  him,  and  when  he 
entered  the  shadow,  stop  him  and  kill  him  if  he  at 
tempted  to  cry  out  or  discharge  his  piece.  Then, 
only  two  or  three  hundred  arshin  ahead  of  the 
enemy's  advance  guard  Mitrevitz  crossed  the  track 
on  his  belly,  and  gave  similar  orders  to  two  men 
on  the  other  side.  It  looked  desperate  to  Mitre 
vitz.  He  had  done  all  he  could,  but  it  was  almost 
too  much  to  expect  to  stop  all  four  of  those  men  in 
silence. 

The  advance  guard  thought  themselves  too  far 
from  the  enemy  to  be  very  alert.  The  ensign  in 
command  was  talking  in  low  tones  to  the  forest 
guard  Robert  Guibet  as  the  dozen  men  swung  along 
between  the  two  lines  of  the  ambush.  The  four 
flankers,  trying  not  to  drop  behind,  did  not  slacken 
their  pace  as  they  approached  the  edge  of  the 
clearing. 

Mitrevitz,  his  nerves  tense,  saw  the  inner  flanker 
on  his  side  was  coming  straight  for  him.  "Lie  still !" 
he  whispered  to  the  man  he  had  detailed  to  stop  this 
Russian.  "I'll  take  him."  He  waited  till  the  soldier 
entered  the  shadow  of  the  pines.  He  sprang  up, 
pointing  his  revolver  at  the  man's  eyes.  "Not  a 
sound!"  he  hissed,  in  Russian. 

The  soldier  gave  a  gasp  of  terror.  "Don't  shoot!" 
he  whispered,  not  realizing  that  Mitrevitz  could  not 
shoot  without  giving  the  alarm  "I'm  with  you ! 
I'm  a  Social-Democrat — for  the  revolution!" 

His  mind  acting  with  lightning-like  rapidity  under 
strain,  Mitrevitz  seemed  to  read  the  man's  SQ.U!, 


THE     CHASM  259 

believed  him,  and  paying  no  more  attention  to  him, 
listened  with  torturing  intensity  for  the  shot  or 
shout  he  feared.  To  his  left,  where  the  outer  flank 
er  had  come  upon  the  line,  he  heard  a  sickening 
groan — just  one.  "Whether  necessary  or  not,  God 
knows!"  thought  Mitrevitz,  but  that  man's  death 
did  not  occupy  another  second  of  his  thought. 

The  advance  guard  had  not  stopped.  They  were 
fifty,  a  hundred  feet  beyond  the  ambush.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  track,  behind  the  revolutionary 
line,  he  saw  a  Russian  move  through  a  lighted  space 
parallel  with  the  track.  It  was  the  inner  flanker  on 
that  side.  He"  must  have  closed  in  far  enough  to 
miss  the  line,  and  they  had  let  him  go. 

"Good  work!"  thought  Mitrevitz.  "How  about 
number  four?"  There  was  no  sound  or  movement 
in  that  direction.  The  advance  guard  marched 
farther  and  farther  into  harmlessness;  and  the  main 
body  of  the  Russians  was  in  sight.  From  the  front, 
at  that  distance,  the  two  companies  in  column  of 
fours  looked  like  a  single  dark  object.  One  would 
have  taken  it  for  a  team  and  wagon.  Mitrevitz 
could  hear  the  deep  breathing  of  the  nervous  men 
around  him.  It  was  a  racking  wait  till  they  could 
see  the  individual  forms,  and  then  the  faces  of  the 
Russians  in  the  moonlight. 

In  the  silent  night,  a  rifle  flamed  and  roared  on  the 
black  edge  of  the  clearing — one  shot  followed  in 
stantly  by  two — a  dozen — thirty — visible  to  the  Rus 
sians  as  the  blazing  arc  of  a  circle  of  which  they  were 
the  center — and  scores  of  bullets  drawing  the  short 
and  deadly  radii !  Men  pitched,  whirled,  stumbled, 
went  down  groaning.  The  column  melted  down  in 


260  THE     CHASM 

blood  and  anguish  on  the  track.  From  front  to  rear 
they  were  raked  and  hit  by  a  fire  they  could  not 
return.  To  get  them  out  of  that  focus  of  slaughter 
Byeletsky  tried  to  make  them  execute  right  and  left 
front  into  line  of  squads,  but  their  instinct,  far  older 
than  modern  firearms,  far  older  than  military  disci 
pline,  was  to  huddle  together  for  mutual  protection. 
When  the  leaden  logic  of  the  3<>3o's  forced  them  to 
see  the  helpless,  hopeless  doom  of  that,  the  surviv 
ors  bolted  from  that  litter  of  warm  corpses  and 
writhing  human  forms  in  a  wild  rush  for  shelter. 

With  the  melting  away  of  their  definite  living 
target  on  the  track,  the  revolutionists  slackened  their 
fire,  and  in  the  lull  heard  Mitrevitz  shouting,  "For 
ward  in  line !"  He  was  afraid  not  to  go  forward  lest 
the  Russians,  unpursued,  should  reform,  advance  in 
line,  and  sweep  his  still  numerically  inferior  force 
out  of  existence. 

The  Russians,  an  organization  no  longer,  did  not 
await  the  charge  of  their  enemies.  There  were  men 
who  had  stood  the  test  of  Mukden  in  that  crowd  of 
individuals  running  through  the  woods  toward  Zher- 
gan.  Mitrevitz  did  not  dare  pursue  them  beyond 
the  forest,  for  fear  of  reinforcements — especially 
the  Cossacks. 

Seeing  the  main  body  scattered,  the  Russian  ad 
vance  guard,  whose  carelessness  had  caused  the 
disaster,  did  not  attempt  to  return  through  the  revo 
lutionary  force.  Guided  by  Robert  Guibet  through 
the  woods  to  the  road  from  Medin,  they  reached 
town  unharmed. 

The  Brothers  of  the  Woods,  whose  return  from 
that  pursuit  was  the  beginning  of  their  own  flight 


THE     CHASM  261 

from  the  neighborhood,  saw  fifty  or  sixty  dead  and 
wounded  Russians  on  the  track  and  in  the  ditches 
where  stricken  men  had  reeled.  Other  wounded 
men  had  been  able  to  reach  the  woods,  and  had 
fallen  there.  Some  died  there  alone.  Some  had  faint 
ed  with  pain  or  loss  of  blood  and  were  to  regain  con 
sciousness  in  solitude,  or  with  what  grim  sense  of 
companionship  a  man  unable  to  move  and  feeling 
the  life  ebb  out  of  him  may  have  in  hearing  the 
groans  of  comrades  in  agony. 


VII 

THREE  quarters  of  an  hour  after  they  saw  the 
troops  go  by,  Sonya  left  the  window  and 
went  to  Marion's  bed.  "Marion!" 

The  sleeper  started,  opened  her  eyes,  recognized 
her  friend,  and  smiled  happily  at  being  called  Mar 
ion. 

"Listen!" 

There  was  the  far-off,  ominous  roar  of  many  rifles 
— a  sound  nearly  as  horrible  in  its  significance  as 
any  that  vibrates  in  the  air  of  man's  still  horrible 
planet. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  said  Marion  tensely. 
"Have  they  caught  the  revolutionists?" 

"I  hope  for  once  the  revolutionists  have  caught 
them." 

"Fifty  of  them?"  She  got  up,  slipped  on  a  dress 
ing  gown,  and  went  to  the  window.  Sonya  had  not 
undressed.  "That  sounds  as  though  it  were  at  the 
manor,"  said  Marion. 

"The  night  is  still.     It  is  probably  in  the  forest." 

A  mounted  orderly  came  galloping  up  the  street 
from  the  direction  of  Mayor  Ronke's,  Tschulitsky's 
new  headquarters,  and  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  the  firing. 

After  about  ten  minutes  the  fire  slackened  and 
262 


THE     CHASM  263 

ceased.  A  little  later  it  began  again,  more  scat 
tering,  but  louder.  Marion  shivered. 

A  drummer  at  the  barracks  near  the  central  prison 
began  beating  the  long  roll ;  a  bugler  blew  first  call 
over  and  over,  and  then  assembly;  the  more  distant 
call  of  the  Cossacks  came  from  the  northwest  quar 
ter;  the  night  air  carried  hoarse  shouts  of  command 
weirdly  over  the  town.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a 
door  slammed.  Lights  appeared  in  windows  that 
had  been  dark.  There  was  a  murmur  of  wondering 
voices  here  and  there  as  sleepers  woke  and  called 
to  each  other  to  know  what  was  wrong. 

The  mounted  orderly  came  tearing  back  from  the 
southeast,  and  five  minutes  later  a  rotni  of  Cos 
sacks  a  hundred  strong  galloped  through  Zhergan 
hurling  a  great  cloud  of  dust  high  into  the  quiet 
moonlight  air. 

"Why  didn't  the  Brothers  get  away  while  they 
could?"  exclaimed  Marion,  shuddering  at  the  power 
of  that  living,  catapultic  projectile  of  men  and 
horses. 

"The  Cossacks  can't  go  through  the  woods  like 
that,"  said  Sonya,  to  reassure  herself  no  less  than 
Marion. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  company  of  infantry  went 
by  in  double  time,  some  of  the  men  choking  and 
coughing  as  they  breathed  the  dust  raised  by  the  Cos 
sacks. 

"Why  do  they  need  so  many?"  exclaimed  Marion. 
"Is  the  revolutionary  force  larger  than  I  said?" 

Sonya  shook  her  head.    "They  made  an  ambush." 

"An  ambush,"  repeated  Marion  thoughtfully.  She 
realized  then  that  all  those  drums  and  bugles  in  the 


264  THE     CHASM 

night,  that  roar  of  many  rifles,  that  rush  of  men  and 
horses,  were  all  the  result  of  one  brief  sentence  spo 
ken  by  her  in  this  same  room  seven  hours  before. 

The  muffled  pounding  of  the  feet  of  the  infantry 
men  died  away  in  the  distance.  There  were  no  more 
audible  indications  of  what  was  going  on  among  the 
three  or  four  hundred  men  who  had  left  Zhergan. 
The  minutes  of  waiting  with  strained  attention  were 
long.  Thirty  of  them  passed  with  no  sound  from 
beyond  the  town.  Sonya  and  Marion  found  them 
selves  shivering  with  cold  and  excitement.  They  lay 
down  still  listening,  grew  drowsy,  fell  asleep. 

They  were  roused  and  terrified  by  someone  in  the 
corridor  kicking  violently  on  their  door,  and  a  harsh 
voice  calling,  "Dr.  Grenning!" 

"That's  a  Cossack!"  exclaimed  Sonya  under  her 
breath.  "What  if  they've  come  for  Grenning?" 

"Why  should  they?"  whispered  Marion. 

"He  carried  your  information  to  the  Brothers." 

They  heard  a  match  strike  in  the  corridor.  Boot 
ed  feet  moved  heavily  on  the  flag-stones.  Outside 
the  window  they  heard  the  hard  breathing  of  horses, 
the  swish  of  their  tails,  the  champ  of  bits  and  stamp 
of  hoofs  as  the  animals  bit  and  kicked  at  the  mosqui 
toes  drawing  their  blood. 

"If  somebody  doesn't  open  some  door  in  this 
house  I'll  break  them  down!"  roared  the  man  in 
the  hall. 

"I  wonder  if  Grenning  is  in  there?"  whispered 
Marion. 

"I  hope  not." 

"What  shall  we  do?" 


THE     CHASM  265 

"If  they've  come  to  arrest  him  and  find  him  not 
here  they'll  say  that  proves " 

"He  can  prove  he's  been  with  a  patient." 

"What  chance  will  he  have  to  prove  anything? 
They  may  take  him  out  and  shoot  him  against  the 
wall  of  his  own  office." 

A  door  on  the  other  side  of  the  corridor  opened 
and  the  women  heard  Kaminsky  demanding, 
"What's  this  racket?"  They  could  see  by  the  gleam 
of  light  along  the  crack  under  the  door  that  Kamin 
sky  had  a  light. 

"Are  you  Dr.  Grenning?" 

"No.  That's  the  Doctor's  door  over  there  with 
his  card  on  it.  Can't  you  read?" 

"Can't  you  see  I'm  a  jigit?"  retorted  the  Cossack, 
scorning  the  suggestion  that  he  could  be  guilty  of  so 
unwarriorlike  a  habit. 

"What  do  you  want  with  Dr.  Grenning?"  in 
quired  Kaminsky.  His  manner  made  the  Cossack 
take  him  for  some  kind  of  civil  authority,  so  he 
adopted  a  tone  of  friendly  superiority. 

"I  don't  want  him  at  all.  The  Cossacks  wouldn't 
be  such  fools  as  let  a  few  Lettish  cattle  shoot  them 
to  pieces.  It's  the  soldiers.  They're  spilled  all 
over  the  woods.  I've  brought  a  horse  for  this  doc 
tor  to  go  and  cut  off  their  arms  and  legs.  Much 
good  they'll  be  after  that!" 

"They  want  him  as  a  doctor!"  rejoiced  Sonya. 

Marion  drew  a  long  breath. 

Relieved  of  the  same  fear  that  had  upset  Sonya 
and  Marion,  Kaminsky  read  the  Cossack  the  notice 
the  doctor  had  thumb-tacked  to  his  door  giving  the 


266  THE     CHASM 

address  at  which  he  could  be  found.  "Did  they 
catch  the  Letts  that  did  the  shooting?"  Kaminsky 
inquired. 

"The  soldiers?  Of  course  not.  They'll  let  them 
go  till  daylight.  By  then  they'll  be  in  as  many 
different  izbas  as  there  are  men.  They'll  hide  their 
guns  in  haystacks,  and  then  how  are  you  going  to 
tell  who  was  out?" 

"You  might  shoot  them  all,"  Kaminsky  suggested. 

"We  will  if  we  get  the  word,"  said  the  Cossack. 
"There's  no  nonsense  about  us."  He  rode  off,  lead 
ing  the  horse  he  had  brought  for  the  doctor. 

"I  wish  the  Cossacks  had  been  shot  instead  of 
those  peaceable-minded  Russian  conscripts,"  said 
Marion  to  Sonya. 

Army  wagons  half-filled  with  hay  were  rumbling 
and  rattling  through  the  streets  on  their  way  out  to 
bring  in  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 

At  quarter  to  one,  Grenning  came  on  horseback 
with  the  Cossack,  who  stayed  outside  with  the  horses. 
The  doctor  went  into  his  office,  packed  a  suit-case 
full  of  bandages,  splints,  cotton,  and  gauze,  and  got 
ready  his  instruments,  needles,  thread,  antiseptics, 
ether  cans  and  hood,  hypo  tablets  and  syringe.  While 
doing  this,  he  heard  Sonya's  rap  through  the  wall, 
and  went  to  her  door.  It  was  held  ajar. 

"Ferdinand,"  whispered  Sonya,  "I  was  fright 
ened  when  the  Cossacks  came  for  you,  and  " 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  how  to  be  frightened," 
he  said  as  she  hesitated. 

"We  were  wondering  what  to  do,  and  I  told  Mar 
ion  it  was  you  who  carried  word  to  the  Brothers. 
She  gave  us  that  information  to  save  the  Brothers, 


THE     CHASM  267 

and  I  think  she  blames  us  for  using  it  to  destroy  the 
Russians.  She  wants  to  speak  to  you.  I  wanted  you 
to  understand  everything." 

"Thanks,  Sonya.  She  can't  expect  us  to  stop  with 
half-way  measures." 

Sonya  yielded  her  place  at  the  door  to  Marion. 

"Are  there  many  wounded?"  began  the  Countess 
abruptly. 

"The  Cossack  says  a  hundred.  It  seems  the  two 
companies  walked  into  a  trap  and  lost  over  half  their 
men." 

"Of  course  your  knowledge  of  that  trap  comes 
only  from  the  Cossack!"  Her  eyes  attacked  his,  but 
he  displayed  no  qualms.  "Do  you  imagine  for  an 
instant  that  I  am  ashamed  of  my  share  in  the  trap?" 
he  demanded. 

She  did  not  pursue  the  question.  "Is  there  hospital 
room  for  so  many?"  she  asked. 

"Probably  the  army  surgeon  will  secure  a  building 
for  temporary  hospital." 

"What  I  wanted  to  say  was — if  there's  anything 
money  can  buy  that  the  Government  fails  to  furnish, 
get  it.  I  will  pay." 

"I  understand." 

She  looked  at  him,  trying  to  make  out  why  he  was 
not  wholly  sympathetic.  He  could  not  be  enthusias 
tic  over  her  salving  a  conscience  that  from  his  point 
of  view  needed  no  salve. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  said.  "There  will  be  plenty 
the  Government  fails  to  furnish." 

"You  will  need  nurses,"  she  said.  "Get  them.  And 
tell  me — shall  I  come  myself  tonight?  Can  I  help?" 

"Have  you  had  hospital  experience?"   She  judged 


268  THE     CHASM 

from  his  expression  that  he  hoped  she  had,  but  she 
said  no.  "Don't  come,"  he  said,  and  looked  toward 
the  outer  door. 

"Don't  you  feel  a  curious  justice  in  your  going  to 
help  these  men?" 

"Justice!"  he  exclaimed.  "Lord!"  He  dropped 
his  voice  still  lower.  "All  that's  worrying  me  is  'aid 
and  comfort  to  the  enemy.'  '  He  thought  a  mo 
ment,  then  went  on.  "Today  when  he  saw  he  would 
have  the  Russians  in  his  power  the  leader  of  the 
Brothers  said  to  me,  'I  am  sorry  for  these  men,  but 
tonight  they  are  tools  of  the  Tsar,  not  men.' 

"That  is  more  human  than  the  professional  sol 
dier." 

"It  was  our  business  to  deal  with  them  as  tools  of 
the  Tsar,"  said  Grenning.  "We  did  it.  It  now 
seems  to  be  my  business  to  deal  with  them  as  men. 
But  don't  delude  yourself  by  thinking  I  do  it  to  make 
amends.  There  are  none  to  make." 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  these  men  who  are 
suffering.  I  wish  I  could  Jook  at  it  as  cold-bloodedly 
as  you  seem  to.  I  can't  take  so  easily  the  thought 
that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  these  men  would  not 
have  been  killed  and  wounded." 

"Better  men  would  have  been.  Yes — and  tor 
tured  !  But  you're  wrong  if  you  think  me  cold-blood 
ed,  Countess  Marion.  I  have  just  come  from  the 
birth  of  a  child — a  thing  of  unceasing  marvel.  As 
I  came  away  it  struck  me  as  a  ghastly  absurdity  that 
you  brave,  tender  women  should  bear  mankind  in  ag 
ony — to  have  them  destroyed  in  war.  But  you  and 
I  cannot  escape  war.  It  is  here.  We  can  sulk — •. 
we  can  criticize  the  ungentle,  uncouth  fighters,  or — < 


THE     CHASM  269 

we  can  take  sides.  The  best  we  can  do  is  fight  on 
the  side  whose  triumph  means  the  end  of  war.  Yes, 
and  the  end  of  the  horrors  of  peace !  You're  on  that 
side  today.  Don't  leave  it — not  for  wealth,  and  not 
for  love!" 

Something  warm  and  beautiful  seemed  to  flow  into 
Marion's  soul — a  sense  of  rising  to  a  higher  spiritual 
level — a  vision  or  a  feeling  of  practical  idealism, 
of  sacrifice  approved  by  reason,  of  faith  that  burned 
not  in  spite  of,  but  as  a  result  of  critical  intelligence 
— a  faith  that  stands  the  test !  "I'm  glad  you're  alive, 
Dr.  Grenning!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'm  oh  so  glad 
the  Cossacks  came  for  you  as  a  physician!"  She 
wished  him  good  luck  and  Godspeed  as  he  hastened 
out  with  his  instruments  and  rode  away  to  his  night 
of  toil. 

She  lay  awake  a  long  while  thinking  of  the  things 
he  had  said.  There  was  something  about  him  that 
stirred  her  enthusiasm,  made  her  believe  in  him  and 
in  the  cause  he  placed  above  wealth  and  love. 

The  quiet  of  the  town  was  not  yet  broken  by  the 
noises  of  returning  troops  and  wagons.  The  room 
and  the  house  were  still.  In  that  stillness  Marion 
heard  a  strange  involuntary  whisper.  Whether 
from  troubled  sleep  or  feverish  wakefulness — in 
either  case  from  her  subconscious  soul — came  Son- 
ya's  whispered  words — "He  loves  her!" 


VIII 

AT  dawn,  Tschulitsky  set  out  with  Cossacks,  in 
fantry,  and  machine  guns.  Captain  Byeletsky 
had  reported  the  force  he  met  as  not  less  than 
two  hundred.  The  troops  spent  a  hard  day  scouting 
through  the  forest,  but  found  no  enemy.  The  revo 
lutionists  had  scattered  or  circled  Zhergan.  The  sol 
diers  came  back  to  town  after  dark,  exhausted  for 
nothing. 

Marion  returned  with  Feodor  to  the  manor,  but 
finding  it  lonely  there  after  growing  used  to  the  com 
panionship  of  her  friends  in  town,  she  sent  Davuidka 
to  bring  Sonya  and  Grenning  out  to  dinner. 

Grenning  had  been  up  all  the  night  before,  had 
worked  all  day,  and  was  going  to  bed;  but  he  came. 
He  was  tempted  to  take  a  hypo,  of  morphine,  but 
finally  decided  the  Countess  would  have  to  make 
allowances. 

The  evening  was  the  best  De  Hohenfels  had  spent 
since  coming  from  St.  Petersburg.  After  the  society 
of  the  army  officers,  it  was  an  inspiration  to  him  to 
talk  with  people  of  mental  range  and  power.  Son- 
ya's  self-certainty,  her  independence,  the  impression 
she  gave  of  thinking  more  than  she  expressed,  his 
feeling  that  she  understood  him  better  than  he  un- 

270 


THE     CHASM  271 

derstood  her,  gave  her  mystery,  and  attracted  him. 
He  did  most  of  the  talking,  being  stimulated  by 
brief  comments  of  Grenning  showing  comprehension 
but  not  agreement.  After  they  had  gone,  Feodor 
commented  on  Grenning's  taciturnity,  and  asked  if 
he  and  Sonya  were  lovers. 

Marion  thought  of  Sonya's  whisper,  though  by 
day  it  did  not  have  the  enormous  significance  it  had 
presented  to  her  nocturnal  soul.  "Perhaps  she  is  in 
love  with  him,"  she  answered.  "It's  hard  to  tell 
about  them.  They  seem  more  like  comrades  than 
lovers,  but " 

"I  noticed  they  both  look  at  things  from  the 
socialist  angle.  Do  you  suppose  there  is  a  social- 
democratic  way  of  being  in  love?" 

She  smiled,  then  considered  it  seriously.  "I  had 
not  thought  of  it,"  she  said,  "but  perhaps  there  is. 
The  bourgeois  world  has  certainly  failed  to  create 
any  way  of  love  of  its  own.  Its  love,  like  its  poetry, 
has  had  to  ape  the  forms  of  the  past.  It  has  imi 
tated  the  love  of  feudal  chivalry,  or  finding  that  false 
— for  itself — has  turned  to  cynical  disbelief  and  dis 
regard  of  love." 

"And  what  was  the  feudal  way  of  love?"  asked 
Count  Feodor,  more  interested  than  he  usually  was 
in  Marion's  ideas. 

"The  feudal  way  was  to  capture  a  woman,  'domi 
nate'  her,  set  her  on  a  narrow  pedestal  from  which 
she  must  not  move — then  worship  her.  It  was  idola 
trous  because  the  dominator  was  worshiping  a  thing 
of  his  own  making." 

"You  will  change  the  nature  of  man  before  you  do 
away  with  domination." 


272  THE     CHASM 

"Willingly,"  she  said.  "Fortunately  it  is  chang 
ing  all  the  time.  In  the  coming  way  of  love  there  will 
be  no  domination,  no  pedestal,  no  making  and  so  no 
smashing  of  idols,  no  forming  and  so  no  losing  of 
illusions.  We  shall  love  truthfully — with  realism. 
Love  between  man  and  woman  shall  be  love  between 
comrades  and  equals.  Yes,  I  have  convinced  myself 
— there  is  a  social-democratic  way  of  love." 

Feodor  de  Hohenfels  listened  with  disapproval. 
"Then  goodbye  glamour,  mystery  and  lure!"  he 
cried.  "Goodbye  the  Dionysian  intoxication — the  di 
vine  madness  there  was  in  all  great  deeds  and  art  and 
love !  Put  out  the  fire  of  spring — there'll  be  nothing 
in  men's  souls  for  it  to  kindle !  Your  social-demo 
cratic  way  of  love  is  drabbest  English  Puritanism!" 

"Do  you  feel  any  of  that  in  Sonya  Demidoff  ?" 

"No.    I  didn't  feel  it.    Is  it  there?" 

"Not  any  drab  English  Puritanism.  But  what  I 
was  describing  is  there.  She  will  love  a  man  as  a 
comrade,  not  as  an  overmasterer.  She  will  play 
mouse  to  no  cat-passion  of  capture.  If  your  Diony 
sian  intoxication  is  incompatible  with  sex-equality, 
the  men  of  the  future  will  have  to  contrive  some  way 
to  get  along  without  it." 

"It  dies  in  marriage  anyhow,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"And  the  love  of  comrades  does  not!"  was  all 
she  said,  but  she  was  deeply  hurt,  could  not  longer 
conceal  from  herself  her  feeling  that  her  marriage 
was  a  mistake,  and  her  heart  turned  aching  to  the 
thought  of  that  other  "true"  love  which  she  had 
chosen  to  erase  from  her  life.  "Walt's  love  would 
not  have  died,"  she  thought. 

Count  Feodor  thought  regretfully  of  Rome  and 


THE     CHASM  273 

the  Duchess  di  Callignano,  who  wrought  with  the 
sex-lure  like  an  artist  on  the  souls  of  men.  If  to  be 
untouched  with  modern  spirit  would  enable  a  woman 
to  retain  glamour  and  mystery,  Di  Callignano  would 
retain  hers  forever. 

Next  day  Feodor  and  Marion  had  no  time  to  con 
sider  the  problem  of  how  they  were  to  live  together 
without  love.  Soon  after  breakfast  sixteen  Cos 
sacks  rode  up  the  gravel  driveway  to  the  manor, 
and  their  ensign  informed  De  Hohenfels  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  escort  him  to  the  Town-House. 

A  court-martial  was  sitting  to  determine  the  cause 
of  the  recent  disaster.  The  court  could  not  really 
succeed  in  this  without  finding  that  had  it  not  been 
for  the  torture  of  Yan  Kenim  in  Riga  Saturday  night 
there  would  have  been  no  revolutionary  ambush 
Tuesday  at  Zhergan.  De  Hohenfels  asked  in  what 
capacity  he  was  sent  for,  but  the  ensign  could  not 
say. 

They  found  the  Town-House  full  of  soldiers,  some 
under  arms,  some  with  side-arms — sentries,  order 
lies,  and  guards.  Robert  Guibet  the  forester  was 
sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  hall-way  under  guard.  He 
had  been  imprisoned  the  night  of  the  ambush.  Two 
private  soldiers  were  also  prisoners.  Captain  Bye 
letsky  and  Ensign  Khlopov,  the  commander  of  the 
advance  guard,  were  waiting  in  the  anteroom  under 
arrest.  The  Cossack  ensign  requested  De  Hohen 
fels  to  be  seated  in  the  same  room,  and  sat  with  his 
prisoner — or  witness.  The  Count  had  to  wait  there 
during  a  lengthy  examination  of  Byeletsky,  Khlopov, 
and  others. 

Byeletsky  was  let  off  with  a  reprimand.     He  was 


274  THE    CHASM 

allowed  to  show  that  Ensign  Khlopov  was  in  a  posi 
tion  to  ascertain  the  presence  of  the  ambush  and  had 
failed  to  do  so. 

Khlopov  explained  that  he  had  flankers  out  prop 
erly,  but  they  had  failed  to  give  any  signal  when  they 
came  upon  the  enemy's  line.  He  had  not  yet  thrown 
forward  a  point,  but  the  point  would  have  been  on 
the  track  and  would  not  have  discovered  the  ambush. 
He  said  he  was  relying  largely  on  Robert  Guibet. 
He  gave  the  names  of  the  four  flankers.  The  court- 
martial  recommended  that  Ensign  Khlopov  be  dis 
honorably  dismissed  from  the  service.  The  recom 
mendation  was  finally  carried  out,  and  Khlopov  shot 
himself. 

Of  the  four  flankers,  one — the  Social-Democrat 
spared  by  Mitrevitz — was  missing,  and  one  had  been 
found  dead  in  the  woods  with  a  bayonet  wound 
through  his  throat.  The  third,  the  soldier  Kazyol, 
was  drawn  by  Sikorsky  into  the  admission  that  as  he 
approached  the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  had  closed 
in  to  less  than  the  prescribed  distance  from  the  ad 
vance  guard.  This  trifling  failure  to  follow  in 
structions  had  caused  him  to  miss  the  revolutionary 
line.  He  was  sentenced  to  five  years  in  one  of  the 
Siberian  disciplinary  regiments.  When  he  heard 
this  sentence,  he  begged  to  be  shot,  but  his  plea  was 
not  granted. 

Dutloff,  the  fourth  flanker,  was  hazy  in  his  testi 
mony.  He  remembered  walking  from  the  clearing 
into  the  shadow,  and  the  next  thing  he  knew  was 
that  he  was  on  his  back  under  the  trees  alone,  with 
a  terrible  pain  in  his  head.  His  head  was  bruised 
and  swollen.  He  claimed  he  had  heard  nothing  of 


THE    CHASM  275 

the  battle.  The  court  decided  that  he  must  have 
had  some  opportunity  to  give  the  alarm,  and  had 
failed  to  do  so.  He  was  adjudged  guilty  of  neglect 
of  duty  through  cowardice  and  sentenced  to  be  shot 
next  day  at  sunrise  in  presence  of  the  garrison. 

Robert  Guibet  was  brought  in  and  accused  of 
treacherously  leading  the  expedition  into  ambush. 
He  said  he  had  last  seen  the  revolutionists  in  their 
camp  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  had  no 
reason  to  suppose  they  were  not  still  there  at  eleven. 
Tschulitsky  was  presiding,  and  no  one  called  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  he  had  sent  no  scouts  of  his 
own  to  find  out  the  exact  position  and  movements  of 
the  enemy.  He  brought  out  the  fact  that  the  forest 
er  had  full  knowledge  of  the  expedition  by  two  in 
the  afternoon.  The  court  decided  that  if  six  hours 
later  he  was  near  enough  to  the  camp  of  the  revolu 
tionists  to  see  it,  he  was  there  for  no  good  purpose. 
He  was  sentenced  to  be  shot  next  day  at  sunrise — 
unless  in  the  meantime  he  should  decide  to  confess 
his  guilt  and  name  his  accomplices — particularly 
what  orders  or  messages  he  had  received  from  his 
master  the  Count  de  Hohenfels. 

The  Count  de  Hohenfels  was  summoned.  In  the 
small  room  where  the  court  sat,  he  found  four  of 
ficers  sitting  stiffly  in  full  uniform  along  the  farther 
side  of  a  long  table,  and  a  Jewish  soldier  at  the 
end  of  the  table  writing  and  fussing  with  open  and 
folded  documents.  De  Hohenfels  recognized  Com 
mandant  Tschulitsky  and  Captain  Sikorsky.  The 
others  were  infantry  captains  and  Tschulitsky's 
clerk. 

Without   making   a    formal   charge,   Tschulitsky 


276  THE     CHASM 

pointed  out  that  outside  the  military  authorities  the 
Count  de  Hohenfels  and  his  forester  were  the  only 
persons  in  Zhergan  who  had  official  knowledge  of 
the  expedition.  This  knowledge  had  evidently 
reached  the  revolutionists.  How? 

De  Hohenfels  replied  that  he  did  not  know. 

He  was  asked  to  produce  the  letter  he  had  re 
ceived  from  the  Governor-General.  He  found  it  in 
his  pocket,  glanced  over  it  and  dropped  it  on  the 
table.  He  was  irritated  by  having  been  kept  wait 
ing  so  long.  "It  would  be  well  for  you  to  reflect, 
Commandant,"  he  observed,  "that,  as  this  letter 
shows,  the  Governor-General  knows  you  had  to  be 
forced  into  this  expedition.  If  you  start  any  ab 
surd  proceedings  against  me — or  against  Robert 
Guibet — I  will  see  to  it  that  a  court-martial  sits  in 
this  case  with  rank  enough  to  determine  why  the 
Commandant  of  Zhergan  had  to  be  compelled  to 
undertake  this  expedition,  and  what  relation  his  re 
fusal  to  attack  the  revolutionists  on  Monday  bears 
to  the  failure  of  the  attack  he  was  ordered  to  make 
on  Tuesday." 

Tschulitsky  turned  white  and  red  with  fear  and 
anger.  He  saw  that  this  unexpected  view  of  the 
case  looked  infernally  plausible,  and  Sikorsky  was 
making  him  violent  signals  to  keep  cool.  The  Com 
mandant  could  think  of  no  decent-looking  way  to 
drop  De  Hohenfels  then  and  there.  Sikorsky  came 
to  his  rescue.  "It  was  too  clearly  to  the  interest 
of  the  Count  de  Hohenfels  to  have  this  band  of 
marauders  on  his  estate  exterminated,"  said  the  ad 
jutant  politely,  "to  permit  anyone  to  suppose  that 
he  intentionally  put  them  in  possession  of  informa- 


THE     CHASM  277 

tion  as  to  the  Government's  plans.  There  remains, 
however,  the  possibility  of  his  having  been  indis 
creet.  I  suggest  that  the  Count  be  asked  to  tell  this 
court  exactly  what  persons  he  talked  to  concerning 
I  this  expedition."  Tschulitsky  put  the  question  di 
rectly. 

"Only  to  Robert  Guibet,"  said  De  Hohenfels. 

"What  did  you  tell  him?"  asked  Tschulitsky. 

"Tuesday  noon  I  ordered  him  to  keep  watch  of 
the  band  as  long  as  possible  to  make  sure  they  had 
not  left  their  camp,  but  to  go  to  you  not  later  than 
nine  o'clock  and  guide  whomever  you  designated  to 
the  camp." 

"That  accounts  for  Guibet  being  there  at  eight," 
remarked  Sikorsky. 

"Did  you  tell  Guibet  the  camp  was  to  be  at 
tacked?"  asked  Tschulitsky. 

"No.    Still,  not  being  a  fool,  he  understood  that." 

"Did  you  tell  him  not  to  talk  about  it?" 

"No.    I  was  sure  he  would  not." 

"What  made  you  sure?" 

"I  know  his  character.  He  is  sensible,  truthful, 
and  loyal." 

"Loyal  to  whom?" 

"To  me." 

"And  to  the  Tsar?" 

"Guibet  is  a  simple  man.  I  have  never  heard  him 
express  his  sentiments  concerning  the  Tsar.  He  is 
untainted  by  revolutionary  ideas." 

Sikorsky  leaned  over  and  whispered  something 
to  Tschulitsky.  "One  more  question,"  said  the 
Commandant.  "Whom  else  did  you  talk  to  concern 
ing  the  expedition?" 


278  THE    CHASM 

"To  no  one."  De  Hohenfels  did  not  think  of 
his  wife  as  some  one  "else." 

"Did  you  show  this  letter  to  anyone  or  tell  anyone 
of  its  contents?" 

De  Hohenfels  remembered  the  table  in  his  room 
at  the  Zhergan  Inn  where  Marion  had  read  the 
Governor-General's  letter.  Was  it  possible  their  dis 
cussion  had  been  overheard  by  some  servant  listen 
ing  outside  their  door?  Should  he  qualify  his  state 
ment  now  by  saying,  "I  showed  it  to  no  one  but 
the  Countess  de  Hohenfels"? 

"I  demand  that  the  Count  de  Hohenfels  be 
sworn,"  said  Sikorsky  suddenly. 

A  scornful  little  smile  stirred  the  corners  of  De 
Hohenfels's  mouth  at  the  idea  that  if  he  thought  it 
right  to  deceive  these  unfriendly  inquisitors  he  would 
be  deterred  by  an  oath,  not  given  freely  by  himself, 
but  compulsorily  administered  by  them.  He  would 
have  been  reluctant  to  violate  his  own  word,  but  their 
oath — it  was  nothing  to  him. 

They  administered  the  oath. 

"Count  de  Hohenfels :"  said  Tschulitsky  solemnly, 
"did  you  or  did  you  not  show  or  speak  of  the  Gover 
nor-General's  letter  to  any  person  whatsoever?" 

"I  did  not." 

Tschulitsky  and  Sikorsky  conferred  together. 
Tschulitsky  asked  the  captains  if  they  had  any  ques 
tions.  De  Hohenfels  was  escorted  out  by  the  Cos 
sack  ensign,  and  kept  in  the  anteroom  until  Tschulit- 
sky's  clerk  brought  him  a  written  notice  stating  it 
was  the  order  of  the  court-martial  that  the  Count 
de  Hohenfels  should  not  at  present  leave  the  vicinity 
of  Zhergan  without  permission  from  the  military 


THE     CHASM  279 

authorities.       He  was  then   allowed  to  leave  the 
Town-House. 

Next  morning,  a  few  minutes  after  sunrise,  the 
soldier  Dutloff  was  shot  in  presence  of  the  garrison 
'  at  the  brickyard.  The  sound  of  the  volley  that 
killed  him  was  plainly  audible  at  the  manor-house. 
The  soldier  Kazyol  was  placed  guarded  and  in 
irons  on  the  morning  train  for  Mitau  en  route  to 
Siberia — to  a  life  worse  feared  by  the  Russian  sol 
diers  than  the  seven  hells.  The  sentence  against 
Robert  Guibet  was  not  revoked,  but  execution  was 
suspended,  and  the  forester  held  in  prison,  to  be 
used  as  a  witness  in  case  the  detective  division  of  the 
police  could  find  sufficient  evidence  against  De 
Hohenfels  to  convince  the  Governor-General,  now 
friendly  to  him,  of  his  guilt.  For  Tschulitsky  and 
Sikorsky  had  placed  the  affair  in  the  hands  of  the 
secret  police.  Starting  with  the  known  fact  that 
Guibet  and  De  Hohenfels  had  the  disastrous  knowl 
edge  which  had  finally  reached  the  revolutionists,  the 
detectives  set  themselves  to  find  out  if  anyone  in  the 
town,  soldier  or  civilian,  man  or  woman,  had  shared 
that  knowledge. 


IX 

ON  the  Friday  following  the  execution  of  Dut- 
loff,  Yan  Smika,  the  forester  of  the  Medin 
estate,  was  arrested  in  his  cabin  by  a  party 
of  Cossacks  from  Zhergan  and  sent  to  Riga  for 
examination  by  the  detective  division. 

The  revolutionary  parties  in  Zhergan  did  not 
hear  of  this  arrest  until  Monday  morning,  when 
Kaminsky  received  word  through  the  Jewish  agent 
of  a  firm  of  grain-buyers  in  Riga  that  Smika  had 
been  recognized  on  the  night  of  the  battle  by  a  gov 
ernment  spy  who  fought  under  Mitrevitz. 

Kaminsky  went  immediately  to  Grenning's  office. 
"This  brings  it  only  one  step  from  you,"  he  said  to 
Grenning.  "You  must  get  away  now — while  you 
can." 

Grenning  shook  his  head.  "I  was  nominated 
night  before  last  by  the  Social-Democrats  for  the 
second  Duma,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  to  see  you  yes 
terday.  The  authorities  have  given  us  only  three 
weeks'  notice,  and  I  hear  Medin  has  been  at  work 
for  a  couple  of  months.  But  if  you  Social-Revolu 
tionists  will  deign  to  vote,  and  vote  with  us,  we  can 
take  the  seat  away  from  De  Hohenfels." 

"What  does  the  Duma  amount  to?"  scoffed 
280 


THE    CHASM  281 

Kaminsky.  "In  Moscow  they've  put  fifteen  promi 
nent  lawyers  in  jail  to  keep  them  from  running  as 
opposition  candidates." 

"I  don't  think  De  Hohenfels  will  allow  that  in 
Zhergan,"  said  Grenning.  "He'd  be  ashamed  to 
have  the  Countess  know  he'd  won  that  way  himself, 
and  he  won't  let  Medin  do  it." 

"And  suppose  meanwhile  Smika  caves  in?" 

"Your  news  shows  they  didn't  arrest  him  for 
carrying  information  to  Mitrevitz.  Smika  shouldn't 
have  fought  with  the  Brothers  that  night,  or  having 
done  it,  he  should  have  stayed  with  them.  But  think 
of  that  traitor  with  Mitrewitz!  Do  you  know  who 
it  is?" 

"Yes.  Mitrevitz  has  been  notified.  The  man  will 
be  killed.  But  that  will  not  release  Smika.  And  if 
Smika  weakens  under  torture — it's  you  next!" 

Grenning  thought  a  while.  "In  the  first  place,"  he 
said,  "I  have  faith  in  Smika." 

Kaminsky  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"In  the  second  place,  they  will  not  be  pressing 
Smika  for  information  they  don't  suspect  him  of 
having." 

"Nonsense!  They  will  press  him  for  all  the  in 
formation  he  has  and  a  lot  he  has  not." 

"Even  so — if  I  am  elected  to  the  Duma,  I  be 
come  exempt  from  arrest." 

"Theoretically." 

Grenning  laughed  and  thought  of  Kaminsky's  un 
warranted  distrust  of  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels. 
"Nachman:  you  are  'der  Geist  der  stets  verneint.' 
It's  probably  due  to  your  habit  of  calling  yourself 
an  atheist.  Why  don't  you  drop  that  nineteenth  cen- 


282  THE     CHASM 

tury  negative — denial  of  God — and  affirm  the  mod 
ern  positive — the  oneness  of  the  world?" 

"What's  the  difference?"  grunted  Kaminsky. 

"Of  mental  habit.  I  call  the  scepticism  which 
cannot  accept  a  truth  no  better  than  the  credulity 
which  accepts  a  falsehood." 

"You'll  observe  I  can  agree  it's  better  to  affirm 
your  own  proposition  than  deny  its  opposite,  and 
nevertheless  maintain  you'd  better  get  out  of  Zher- 
gan." 

"I'm  not  saying  there's  no  risk,"  said  Grenning. 
"But  in  my  opinion  it's  worth  running.  We  can  win 
this  election  in  Zhergan.  The  Socialist  parties  can 
return  thirty  or  forty  per  cent,  of  the  delegates  of  the 
next  Duma.  If  we  had  foreseen  last  spring  the  tem 
per  of  those  peasant  deputies  we  would  never  have 
boycotted  the  elections  then.  If  we'd  had  our  dele 
gates  there  with  them  we  would  have  made  that  weak 
Vibourg  Manifesto  a  call  to  arms  that  would  have 
aroused  the  Russian  nation,  not  in  a  dozen  times  and 
places  and  unco-ordinated  movements,  but  as  one 


man." 


"That  has  undoubtedly  been  our  weakness,"  said 
Kaminsky.  He  had  no  idea  then  that  leaders  of  his 
own  party  like  Eugene  Phillipovitch  Azef  were  tools 
of  the  Tsar  who  were  intentionally  disco-ordinating 
the  revolutionary  movements  and  scattering  the  revo 
lutionary  strength. 

"Will  you  get  your  people  to  vote  for  me?"  asked 
Grenning. 

"If  you're  still  here  to  vote  for."  Seeing  he  could 
not  influence  Grenning  directly,  Kaminsky  left  him, 
and  went  in  to  Sonya's. 


THE     CHASM  283 

The  Countess  de  Hohenfels  was  there,  but  since 
the  others  told  her  everything  sooner  or  later  any 
how,  Kaminsky  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  keep 
from  her  the  news  of  Smika's  arrest. 

"Do  they  know  about  Grenning?"  was  Sonya's 
quick  question. 

"Apparently  not.    Not  yet." 

"He  and  Smika  went  together." 

"But  Smika  stayed  that  night  and  fought.  It  was 
then  he  was  seen.  Now,  because  they've  arrested 
him  for  taking  part  in  the  fight,  and  not  for  carry 
ing  information,  Grenning  thinks  they  won't  examine 
him  along  the  line  that  leads  to  him.  The  police  are 
not  that  dense.  The  main  thing  they  are  after  is — 
how  Mitrevitz  learned  of  the  expedition.  In  Smika 
they  have  a  man  who  joined  the  band  that  night. 
They  won't  need  an  abacus  to  calculate  that  the  in 
formation  probably  came  to  camp  with  him.  And 
if  so — who  gave  it  to  him?  Grenning  can  say  what 
he  likes— he  lies  square  in  the  path  of  that  investi 
gation." 

"How  about  the  rest  of  us?"  said  Marion.  She 
saw  the  power  of  the  Russian  State  working  in 
toward  her  from  both  sides — the  side  of  Feodor, 
from  whom  she  received  the  information — the  side 
of  the  Brothers,  to  whom  she  had  sent  it. 

"Smika  does  not  know  about  us,"  said  Sonya. 

"He  won't  listen  to  me,"  said  Kaminsky.  "I  wish 
you'd  try  to  get  him  away  from  Zhergan." 

"He'd  pay  more  attention  to  you,  Marion,"  said 
Sonya. 

Marion  colored.  "I  think  not,"  she  said.  "Is 
Smika  a  man  so  likely  to  betray  Grenning?" 


284.  THE    CHASM 

"Smika  isn't,"  answered  Kaminsky.  "But  the 

thing  they  turn  Smika  into 1"  He  shrugged  his 

shoulders. 

Marion's  face  grew  gray  and  her  fingers  clenched. 
"lhate  Russia!" 

"Not  Russia!"  Sonya  protested. 

"The  horror  that  calls  itself  Russia !  The  Tsar 
and  all  the  tens  of  thousands  of  horrible  small 
tsars !  I  cannot  stand  this  country.  I  must  get  away 
from  it  to  some  place  where  men  have  a  right  to 
think  and  read  and  speak  and  breathe  and  not  smell 
blood!" 

"What  is  Ferdinand's  argument  for  not  leaving?" 
asked  Sonya. 

"He  has  the  parliamentary  bee  in  his  bonnet,  and 
that's  all  he  can  hear.  He  has  just  been  nominated 
for  the  Duma." 

"Then  he  will  run  against  Count  Feodor!"  Mar 
ion  exclaimed. 

"If  he  stays,"  supplemented  Kaminsky.  "You  will 
be  doing  a  good  piece  of  electioneering  if  you  get 
him  to  go." 

"Electioneering!"  cried  Marion.  She  gave  Ka 
minsky  a  wrathful  look.  "I  hope  he  stays — and 
wins!" 

"So?"  said  Kaminsky,  hastily  revising  his  ideas. 

Sonya  looked  away. 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  the  men  personally,"  Mar 
ion  explained,  forcibly.  "No  anti-democrat  like 
Count  Feodor  can  do  anything  of  value  in  the  Duma, 
and  Grenning — perhaps  he  can." 

"And  perhaps  no  one  can,"  said  Kaminsky. 
"But!"  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Marion.  They 


285 

looked  each  other  in  the  eye,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  liked  him.  "I  did  not  know  you,"  he  said.  "I 
used  just  the  wrong  argument.  But  for  Grenning's 
sake,  for  ours,  no,  for  the  cause  that  is  above  us  all 
— since  you  are  a  woman  who  can  look  impersonally 
— get  Grenning  away.  We  can't  afford  to  risk  him 
for  the  sake  of  a  seat  in  the  Duma.  If  it  was  any 
thing  vital,  I  wouldn't  grudge  him." 

"I  will  try  it,"  Marion  responded,  rising.  "Though 
if  you  could  not  get  him  to  go,  there  is  little  chance 
that  I  can.  Is  he  in  his  office  ?" 

She  went  in,  accepted  the  Doctor's  invitation  to 
be  seated,  and  in  her  talk  with  him  repeated  the 
arguments  of  Kaminsky.  At  one  point,  as  plainly  as 
though  he  had  done  his  thinking  aloud,  she  saw  him 
pause  and  half-shut  his  eyes  as  the  idea  of  "election 
eering"  crossed  his  mind;  and  then,  with  equal  clear 
ness,  she  saw  him  dismiss  the  idea — as  being  out  of 
keeping  with  his  conception  of  her  character.  His 
faith  in  her  gave  her  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  But  when 
she  asked  him  if  he  would  go,  he  asked  "Where?" 

"Out  of  Russia?"  she  suggested,  uncertainly.  She 
added  half  to  herself,  "That  is  where  I  am  going." 
Realizing  the  personal  interpretation  he  might  give 
to  that,  she  looked  quickly  at  him,  but  saw  he  did  not 
give  it. 

"I  am  not  going  out  of  Russia  while  there  is  a 
chance  of  overthrowing  the  bureaucracy,"  he  said 
positively.  "For  the  present  they  have  kicked  the 
fire  of  revolt  pretty  well  to  pieces  here,  and  in  Mos 
cow,  and  at  Sveabourg,  but  we  must  be  ready  for  the 
new  flame.  There  is  still  Poland,  the  Caucasus,  the 
Black  Sea  Fleet,  the  other  troops  around  St.  Peters- 


286  THE     CHASM 

burg.  The  Baltic  Republic  must  be  ready  to  rise 
again  with  them.  Everywhere  the  plans  of  a  revolu 
tionary  state  are  being  steadily  elaborated.  The 
Duma  is  important  because  the  deputies  from  all 
over  Russia  will  be  in  a  position  to  make  the  rising 
of  distant  'districts  simultaneous." 

"I  did  not  really  expect  to  influence  your  decision," 
said  she.  "I  tried  it  only  to  satisfy  Sonya  and  Ka- 
minsky.  It  may  sound  disloyal  to  my  husband,  but 
you  will  understand  why  I  wish  you  and  not  him  to 
win  this  election.  His  position  is  such  that  he  can 
not  throw  his  strength  unreservedly  to  either  side  in 
the  Russian  struggle — and  you  can.  And  I  hope  you 
overthrow  the  Tsar.  You  Russians  have  suffered  so 
from  tyranny  that  you  love  and  value  freedom  more 
than  we  Americans." 

"You  Americans?    Aren't  you  a  Russian  subject?" 

"The  law  considers  me  one.  But  it  has  struck  me 
lately  as  queer  that,  whether  she  desires  it  or  not, 
marriage  should  automatically  change  a  woman's 
nationality  to  that  of  her  husband.  I  do  not  feel 
myself  a  Russian,  and  of  all  things  in  the  world  the 
thing  I  am  least  willing  to  be  is  a  subject  of  the 
Tsar." 

"We  are  not  willing  either!  You  speak  as  though 
'the  Americans  believe  themselves  free.  If  so,  they 
are  easily  fooled — ruled  as  they  are  by  the  most  un 
mitigated  industrial  oligarchy  in  the  world.  The 
peoples  of  Russia  have  at  least  the  advantage  of 
knowing  they  are  not  free." 

"If  you  overthrow  this  government  which  has  sur 
vived  out  of  the  dark  ages,"  conceded  Marion, 
"America  will  have  to  learn  democracy  from  you. 


THE     CHASM  287 

You  and  Sarin  and  Sonya  and  the  rest  have  more 
faith  in  democracy  and  are  profounder  democrats 
than  any  Americans  I  know — except  one." 

"Walt  Bradfield?"  said  Grenning. 

"Oh,  do  you  remember  his  name?"  Her  face  light 
ed  up. 

"I  would  like  to  know  him,"  the  Doctor  said,  wist 
fully.  "He  must  be  a  wonderful  man  to  be  loved  by 
you." 

"I  didn't  tell  you  that!"  she  exclaimed.  "What 
gave  you  that  idea?" 

"You  said  he  was  your  friend,"  hedging. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  subsiding.  "I  wrote  to  him  two 
weeks  ago."  She  paused,  seeming  to  listen.  "Per 
haps  he  is  just  this  very  moment  receiving  my  let 
ter."  She  turned  her  watch  and  looked  at  it.  "I 
dreamed  he  was  dead.  That  night  I  told  you  about 
him  I  dreamed  it.  I  told  him  of  you  and  Sonya  and 
Russia." 

"Be  careful  what  you  write,"  he  warned.  "The 
authorities  may  think  it  worth  while  to  read  your 
letters  these  days." 

Marion  rose  to  go.  "I  have  a  personal  reason 
for  desiring  your  election,  Doctor.  If  Count  Feodor 
is  defeated,  I  think  I  will  be  able  to  get  him  to  live  in 
Rome." 

"Rome?"  he  said.  "I  will  be  sorry  to  see  you  go." 
He  sat  looking  intently  before  him.  "I  might  as 
well  speak  out,"  he  said.  "I  will  regret  it  if  I  let  you 
go  without  speaking.  I  do  not  think  you  will  be 
satisfied  with  life  in  Rome.  It  will  be  a  dilettant 
life — without  real  significance — and  you  know  what 
significance  is.  You  know  Russia  needs  this  revolu- 


288  THE     CHASM 

tion  as  a  man  smothering  needs  air.  It's  a  need 
greater  than  religion,  keener  than  the  yearning  of 
wife  for  husband — as  compelling  as  the  love  of 
mother  for  child.  This  need  of  the  nation  comes 
into  the  individual's  mind — sometimes  seemingly 
against  a  man's  or  woman's  will — and  when  it  comes 
it  dominates  action.  Often  it  comes  in  the  form  of 
an  impulse  you  find  yourself  obeying." 

"You  are  describing  my  particular  case,"  said 
Marion,  intensely  interested,  " — the  way  I  began  to 
tell  about  the  expedition." 

"Most  of  us  began  in  some  such  way — you  when 
you  heard  of  Kenim,  Sonya  when  they  sent  her  father 
to  Siberia,  Bratavzinsky  when  his  uncle  cynically 
condemned  an  innocent  man  to  death,  I  when  they 
shot  Chelms.  Kaminsky  thinks  the  Cause  above  all 
such  personal  considerations.  To  him  these  are  un 
worthy  reasons;  but  most  of  us  come  to  the  cause, 
not  as  an  abstraction,  but  through  the  burning  need 
of  revolution  which  we  find  unmistakably  in  some 
particular  case  that  comes  home  to  us,  and  then  we 
see  it  everywhere.  And  when  it  does  come,  we  grow 
quiet  and  definite  and  unshakable  and  proceed  to  do 
the  thing  we  have  to." 

"I  know  you  are  describing  a  real  thing  truly," 
said  she.  "But  isn't  it  like  madness — such  involun 
tary  obedience  to  an  idea?" 

"Yes,  it  is  like  madness — and  like  genius.  It  is 
the  yearning  and  the  struggle  for  sanity  in  a  nation 
driven  mad." 

Marion  sat  down  again.  All  that  she  knew  of 
Russia — a  thousand  hitherto  unrelated  facts — 
seemed  suddenly  to  regroup  themselves  and  come 


THE     CHASM  289 

into  focus.  "Am  I  deserting  if  I  go  to  Rome?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  by  the  mere  act  of  going  to  Rome.  Not  by 
going  anywhere.  This  is  a  world-struggle.  It  is 
more  acute  in  Russia  because  here  oppression  is  at  its 
worst  and  in  an  antiquated  form.  You  spoke  awhile 
ago  as  though  it  were  here  only — as  though  it  did 
not  exist  in  America.  To  think  that  is  not  to  be 
deserting.  It  is  to  have  not  yet  enlisted.  Countess 
Marion:  I  hold  you  capable  of  the  only  vital  conver 
sion  left  in  the  world — that  which  finds  one  an  active 
or  passive  supporter  of  established,  powerful,  unjust 
tyranny,  political  and  economic,  and  makes  one  a 
fighter  for  freedom.  This  conversion  sets  you 
cleanly  over  from  the  retarding  to  the  advancing 
party  of  mankind — from  the  world-party  of  rulers, 
financiers  and  magnates  who  hold  the  life  of  the 
world  in  their  enslaving  grip,  to  the  Promethean 
world-party  which  means  to  tear  those  strangling 
fingers  from  the  world's  throat  and  give  the  instinc 
tive  brotherhood  of  man  a  chance  to  grow  into  actual- 
ity." 

"The  instinctive  brotherhood?"  she  repeated.  To 
her  now  it  sounded  like  a  true  word — though  it  op 
posed  her  theory  that  the  brotherhood  of  all  would 
thwart  the  loftiest  development  of  the  few.  Her  own 
instinct,  her  own  actions  of  late  did  not  square  with 
that  theory.  What  was  the  matter  with  it?  In  the 
light  of  her  Russian  experience,  Grenning  seemed  to 
be  defining  truly  the  great  real  issue  of  the  modern 
world.  She  had  a  keen  feeling  of  its  importance  and 
seriousness.  But  Feodor?  She  knew  his  life,  his 
training,  his  philosophy,  made  him  incapable  of  that 


290  THE     CHASM 

vital  conversion.  "There  are  things  that  hold  me 
back,"  she  said. 

"As  to  Rome,"  he  said,  retracting,  "I  spoke  hasti 
ly — from  personal  disappointment.  I  was  hoping 
to  see  you  this  winter  in  St.  Petersburg.  As  for  de 
serting — you  might  as  well  go  to  Rome.  You  will 
not  stay  there.  Or  if  you  do,  you  will  find  the  battle 
there.  Wherever  you  go  you  will  find  it — the  same 
battle — setting  the  souls  of  men  on  flame!" 

"I  have  a  large  job  of  spiritual  stock-taking  on  my 
hands,"  said  Marion.  "A  fine  lot  of  unsolved  prob 
lems  I've  accumulated.  I've  been  shirking  and  put 
ting  them  off.  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  a  keen  de 
sire  to  attack  them.  We  must  see  each  other  again 
for  a  good  talk  before  one  or  both  of  us  leave  Zher- 
gan." 

As  she  left  Grenning's  office,  she  met  Trina  Ronke 
coming  in,  and  received  a  look  of  surprise  and  re 
sentment  in  return  for  her  greeting.  "What's  the 
matter  with  that  individual  ?"  she  thought.  "Can  she 
imagine  I  have  robbed  her  of  Grenning's  affection?" 

Stopping  a  moment  to  tell  Sonya  and  Kaminsky 
that  she  had  not  shaken  Grenning's  resolution,  she 
then  went  by  the  inn  stable,  where  she  told  Davuidka 
to  drive  home  without  her;  and  walking  slowly  home 
ward  in  the  autumn  sunshine,  past  the  brickyard  and 
the  smithy  and  the  fields  where  women,  children,  and 
men  were  at  work  digging  and  sacking  potatoes,  she 
thought  deeply  of  her  life. 

She  thought  of  her  old  desire,  awakened  by  Lady 
Diotima,  for  social  and  political  power,  and  knew 
she  had  missed  it  by  her  marriage  with  Feodor.  But 
that  desire  had  been  linked  with  the  supposition  that 


THE     CHASM  291 

a  woman  could  obtain  and  use  such  power  benefi 
cently.  When  she  had  come  to  know  upon  what 
sordid  considerations  real  "influence"  in  Washington 
depended,  she  knew  she  could  not  attain  it  and  re 
main  anything  she  wanted  to  be.  And  power  in  St. 
Petersburg!  It  was  power  of  darkness,  and  the 
hearts  of  those  who  grasped  it  petrified !  Was  there 
any  power  in  the  world  which  could  coexist  with 
love?  With  eyes  that  had  seen  Russia  she  looked 
back  on  her  father's  conception  of  power — control 
of  industry — the  power  of  which  political  power  was 
but  the  shadow.  She  remembered  the  defeat  of  the 
Curran  bill,  and  Bradfield's  burning  revelation  of 
the  manufacturers'  motives  which  had  made  her 
want  to  vote,  and  Fedya's  cold  comment — 
"Women's  sympathies  are  too  easily  carried  away 
by  such  appeals." 

Was  power  that  did  not  crush  and  grind  man 
kind  impossible?  If  leaders  of  the  new  democ 
racy  like  Grenning,  Sonya,  Sarin,  and  Bradfield  at 
tained  political  power  would  they  make  the  same 
narrow  selfish  use  of  it  the  ruling  class  made  now? 
Her  feeling  was  that  they  would  not — but  why? 
What  was  to  prevent  it?  She  made  a  mental  note 
to  ask  Grenning  about  direct  legislation — the  ma 
chinery  of  the  new  democracy.  Then  she  re'mem- 
bered  those  peasant  deputies  whose  parliamentary 
course  had  been  shaped  by  the  eight  million  peas 
ants  behind  them,  and  Vasili  Pososhkov's  theory 
that  collective  ownership,  aligning  the  self-interest 
of  every  individual  with  the  common  good,  would 
resolve  the  undeniable  discord  now  sounding  be 
tween  self  and  society,  and  with  the  discord  its  re- 


292  THE     CHASM 

flex  in  men's  minds — the  apparent  antithesis  be 
tween  socialism  and  individualism.  Less  definite 
but  more  weighty  than  all  else  with  her  was  her 
own  realization  in  herself  of  a  new  order  of  mo 
tives  and  passions — the  same  order  she  felt  in  the 
souls  of  all  those  in  whom  the  social  consciousness 
had  dawned.  Through  this  she  felt  that  she  un 
derstood  the  new  spirit,  the  new  kind  of  govern 
ment,  dawning  among  the  peoples  of  the  world. 
She  felt  the  bitter  need  of  it. 

But  Feodor?  She  had  grown  accustomed  to 
keeping  her  thoughts  from  him,  but  was  determined 
that  things  should  not  go  on  so.  Their  conversa 
tion  had  grown  narrower  through  avoidance  of  sub 
jects  on  which  they  knew  there  was  between  them 
a  fundamental  disagreement.  His  atmosphere  of 
cold  disapproval,  usually  unspoken,  was  slowly 
freezing  all  her  affection  for  him.  Her  high  opin 
ion  of  his  esthetic  judgment  had  at  first  made  her 
dread  his  disapproval  even  in  the  least  of  things. 
When  she  read  it  in  his  manner  it  had  then  given 
her  a  feeling  of  her  own  deficiency.  Little  by  little, 
she  was  forced  to  feel  that  the  deficiency  lay  rather 
in  him.  He  disapproved  of  and  excluded  too 
much,  he  said  "no"  to  too  wide  and  splendid  a  part 
of  life,  he  loved  too  few  things,  persons,  ideas,  and 
those  he  loved  he  did  not  love  enough.  It  seemed 
some  other,  dreamier  self  within  her  which  mental 
ly  repeated  the  words,  "He  did  not  love  enough," 
as  though  she  were  reading  the  epitaph  of  a  dead 
marriage. 

"How  could  he,"  she  thought,  "when  his  heart 


THE     CHASM  293 

grew  up   in  that  icy  upper   Russian  world  that  is 
based  on  the  crushing  of  men?" 

He  was  indeed  a  Hyperborean — a  dweller  be 
yond  the  cold.  But  the  woman  needed  love.  She 
had  to  have  love  or  wither.  She  did  not  solve  that 
problem  as  she  walked  home  through  the  autumn 
sunshine,  nor  did  she  find  it  solved  when  she  awoke 
at  dawn,  hearing  the  mournful  song  of  a  swallow, 
and  feeling  the  pathos  of  all  far-off  things — cities 
remote,  and  days  gone  by,  and  faces  she  no  longer 
saw. 


X 

THE  days  were  shorter,  the  nights  colder,  the 
intense  labor  of  the  harvest  nearly  over 
in  the  region  round  Zhergan.  The  Count 
and  Countess  de  Hohenfels  and  Baron  Medin  were 
the  only  upperclass  residents  of  the  district  remain 
ing  in  the  melancholy  country,  and  they  of  course 
were  staying  only  on  account  of  the  September  elec 
tion.  Baron  Medin  argued  privately  with  De  Ho 
henfels  that  as  a  landowner  he  could  not  afford  to 
divide  the  anti-socialist  strength  in  the  face  of  a 
Lettish  population  honeycombed  with  socialism. 

De  Hohenfels  smiled.  "Considering  your  small 
vote  this  spring,  Medin,  I  don't  see  how  there  can 
be  any  argument  as  to  which  anti-socialist  candidate 
should  withdraw." 

"There  are  two  arguments.  First:  the  new  re 
strictions  of  the  suffrage  will  disqualify  at  least  half 
of  those  who  voted  for  you  this  spring." 

"Restrictions  made  in  violation  of  the  guarantee 
in  the  Tsar's  original  ukase,"  observed  De  Hohen 
fels. 

"The  restrictions  are  now  part  of  the  law.  The 
second  point  is  that  much  of  your  remaining 
strength  is  this  time  going  to  Grenning."  A  third 
point — that  the  Government  was  preparing  to  use 

294 


THE     CHASM  295 

intimidation — Medin  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
state. 

De  Hohenfels  had  no  exact  information  as  to 
how  things  were  going,  but  his  desire  to  retain  his 
seat  being  aroused  by  the  activity  of  the  Govern 
ment  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  Socialists  on  the 
other,  he  began  to  give  some  time,  thought,  and 
energy  to  the  campaign. 

About  a  week  before  the  election,  Marion,  glanc 
ing  at  her  morning's  mail,  carelessly  tore  open  the 
return  envelop  of  a  Chicago  manufacturing  firm. 
From  it  she  drew  forth  a  fat  letter  from  Walt 
Bradfield.  She  ran  off  quickly  with  it  to  her  own 
room. 

It  was  dated  Chicago,  Sept.  22d.  "Dear  Count 
ess  Marion,"  he  wrote.  "You  ask  if  I  am  angry 
with  you  because  you  left  Moline  without  saying 
goodbye  and  without  telling  me  how  much  you  think 
of  me.  How  long  do  you  think  anger  could  with 
stand  that  question?  My  answer  is  that  I  am  fatalist 
enough  to  know  that  all  that  happened  had  to  hap 
pen.  All  I  need  to  relieve  my  mind  of  about  that 
night  and  morning  is  this:  Count  Hohenfels  did  not 
do  what  I  accused  him  of,  but  he  thought  of  doing 
it,  and  in  your  eyes  my  great  crime  was  thinking  he 
thought  of  it. 

"You  say  you  have  a  thousand  things  to  ask  and 
tell.  There  may  be  an  opportunity  sooner  than 
you  think.  Yes,  I  have  fallen  in  love  a  couple  of 
times,  but  have  been  too  busy  to  do  it  thoroughly. 
It's  taboo  now,  I  suppose,  but  I  hate  taboos,  and  the 
fact  is  you  spoiled  me  a  little  for  others — or  them 
for  me. 


THE     CHASM 

"As  to  that  glorious  vision  of  yours — the  higher 
race — I  see  it  must  be  serviceable  to  the  Countess 
de  Hohenfels  in  that  it  will  help  her  to  view  with 
indifference  (as  a  thing  necessary  and  ultimately 
productive  of  the  highest  good)  the  needless  suf 
fering  and  degradation  of  almost  the  whole  of  her 
own  kind — the  only  beings  she  ever  expects  to  see. 
If  you  and  Count  Feodor  were  naturally  callous 
people  you  probably  wouldn't  need  that  philosophic 
protection  against  pity.  Your  doctrine  is  an  appar 
ently  well-based  substitute  for  the  old  idea  that  God 
has  damned  the  bulk  of  the  race  to  hell.  For  God 
substitute  Nature,  and  for  hell  race  stagnation  and 
decay,  and  you  have  your  comforting  new  formula. 
Comforting  because  it  relieves  you  of  responsibility 
for  conditions  from  which  you  profit.  It  is  Nature 
at  work!  The  elect,  the  chosen  few  of  Nature 
(pretty  shallowly  identified,  I  must  say,  with  the 
present  ruling  class)  are  to  carry  life  on  up  into 
the  earthly  heaven  of  superhumanity. 

"That's  clever!  It  could  be  made  to  sweep  the 
bourgeois  world  like  Christian  Science  or  New 
Thought — if  only  it  didn't  take  so  much  real  imag 
ination  and  so  thorough  a  comprehension  of  the  big 
results  of  biology.  I  concede  at  once  that  all  the 
races  of  our  ancestry  have  split  as  you  expect  ours 
to.  Put  on  top  of  all  biologic  precedent  the  allure 
ment  of  the  old  messianic  idea — transfer  your  re 
ligious  emotions  from  a  supernatural  to  a  natural 
Messiah  reasonably  to  be  expected  in  the  future  and 
appealing  to  the  most  profound  instinct  of  all  true 
lovers  of  men — the  desire  for  a  finer  race — and  I 
do  not  wonder  you  have  yielded  to  this  charm! 


THE     CHASM  297 

"The  Count  de  Hohenfels  and  you,  however, 
seem  to  have  overlooked  the  fact  that  the  various 
ape-tribes,  for  instance,  had  no  steamships  and  rail 
roads  to  bring  them  together,  create  among  them 
like  ways  of  life  and  work  and  thought,  and  insure 
the  blending  of  the  blood  of  all.  Thanks  to  a  knit- 
together  world  the  many  branches  of  mankind  must 
have  not  many  fates,  but  one.  Humanity  cannot 
split  as  simianity  did  into  lower  and  higher.  There 
will  be  no  groups  left  isolated  in  special  environ 
ments. 

"The  Count's  idea  is  worth  forming — and  re 
jecting — because  it  brings  into  clear  light  the  fact 
that  in  not  branching  into  distinct  species  mankind 
makes  a  new  departure  in  the  history  of  racial 
growth.  Man  must  transform  not  a  part,  but  the 
whole  of  his  kind  into  the  higher  race!" 

"Oh,  I  love  that,  Walt!"  said  Marion,  half 
aloud.  "There's  inspiration  of  a  wider,  warmer 
kind  in  that!" 

She  sat  a  moment  loving  that,  before  she  went 
on.  "If  the  Count  is  looking  for  the  final  cleavage 
to  occur,  not  between  different  nations  or  races,  but 
within  the  highest  existing  races  through  gradual 
widening  of  the  gap  between  'higher'  and  'lower' 
classes,  tell  him  to  leave  that  gap  to  Socialism — 
and  sex-attraction !  Europe  is  not  exactly  getting 
ready  for  Hindoo  caste. 

"Our  race  is  one,  by  the  test  of  Fertility,  and  as 
one  it  must  attain  or  fail  of  the  heaven  of  super- 
humanity.  In  a  thousand  years  the  blood  of  the 
basest  must  blend  with  yours.  Better  not  block 
social  progress  that  will  make  his  children  less 


298  THE    CHASM 

base!  A  single  pair  doubling  thirty  times  would 
have  over  a  billion  living  descendants.  After  the 
human  net  is  woven  through  thirty  generations, 
knotting  every  ancestral  thread  to  every  other,  you 
and  your  worst  enemy,  if  the  blood  of  both  of  you 
endures  at  all,  will  both  be  the  very  great  grand 
parents  of  every  individual  alive! 

"We  cannot  say  that  free  men  and  women — es 
pecially  women — will  never  find  some  way  to  breed 
men  only  from  the  best.  To  be  the  best  may  be 
the  chief  incentive  of  that  time.  But  it  is  certainly 
not  from  our  society  of  narrow  individuals  or  from 
the  present  necessarily  selfish  and  slavish  age  that 
a  conscious  tendency  toward  a  higher  race  can  rise. 
That  time  may  not  come  till  Capitalism  and  Social 
ism  are  both  outgrown  and  dim  as  ancient  Egypt. 

"Having  thus  wantonly  deprived  you  of  the  com 
fort  of  your  new  religion  (for  of  course  you  are 
crushed!)  I  feel  I  should  make  some  slight  amends 
by  confessing  that  you  were  not  altogether  wrong 
about  that  automatic  sash-lifter  for  regulating  the 
temperature  of  conservatories.  It  is  on  the  market, 
and  thanks  to  some  friends  I  made  in  Chicago,  I 
was  not  entirely  robbed.  In  fact  I  am  now  ex 
tracting  royalty  from  the  sweat  of  the  men  who  are 
actually  making  the  device. 

"You  ask  for  an  account  of  my  doings.  First, 
I  have  not  shot  myself.  Before  I  'lifted  myself  out 
of  the  class  in  which  I  happened  to  have  been  born' 
I  worked  in  a  Chicago  greenhouse,  did  a  little 
speaking,  and  have  had  two  or  three  articles  in 
Socialist  and  semi-Socialist  magazines,  and  a  pros- 


THE     CHASM  299 

pect  of  some  money  from  them  for  articles  from 
abroad.  They  would  like  to  know,  for  instance, 
why  the  revolution  in  Russia  is  going  so  badly.  It 
looked  like  a  sure  thing.  If  I  were  there  as  a 
magazine  writer — let's  see,  which  is  more  respect 
able — I  shall  also  be  'examining  the  field'  for  the 
introduction  of  the  automatic  sash-lifter — and  since 
it  is  in  one  sense  my  own  sash-lifter,  I  may  prefer 
to  regard  myself  as  a  manufacturer  rather  than  a 
mere  commercial  traveler.  I  shall  select  which 
ever  social  status  will  best  enable  me  to  visit  you 
in  your  Zhergan." 

"Zhergan!"  exclaimed  Marion,  and  her  thoughts 
flashed.  "Here!  Walt  here  in  Zhergan!  What 
will  Fedya — oh,  this  isn't  Turkey!  But  we  won't 
be  here  in  Zhergan!  What  a  shame — to  come  all 
the  way  from  America — When  is  he  coming?"  She 
glanced  on  hastily,  finding  the  sentence  "I  am  leav 
ing  next  week — expect  to  land  in  Hamburg.  On 
the  map  I  locate  Zhergan  near  Riga."  She  looked 
at  the  date.  "Next  week,"  she  repeated.  "Not 
over  a  week  behind  the  letter — if  he  comes  straight 
through.  But  will  he?"  How  much  was  there  to 
his  elaborate  intention  of  coming  to  Europe  and 
Russia  anyway — irrespective  of  her  letter?  Would 
he  stop  in  Hamburg  for  business,  in  Berlin  for. 
sight-seeing?  It  would  be  only  decent  if  he  did  not 
rush  straight  through.  But  unless  he  did — he 
would  not  reach  Zhergan  before  they  left.  They 
were  going  the  day  after  the  election.  If  she  wrote 
to  him  at  Hamburg — but  what  could  she  tell  him? 
She  did  not  yet  know  where  she  and  Fedya  were 


300  THE    CHASM 

going.  To  St.  Petersburg  only  if  he  were  elected. 
And  if  to  Rome — she  and  Bradfield  might  not  meet 
at  all. 

She  laid  the  letter  on  her  lap  and  gazed  out  un 
seeing  across  the  sere  and  black-ribbed  fields. 
"Walt!"  Pictures:  the  island  cabin  in  wood-fire 
light;  the  launch  and  the  lightning;  the  white  lights 
of  Davenport;  the  Hillcrest  wall  and  the  uphill 
concrete  walk.  Tones:  the  rain  on  rattling  win 
dows;  music  of  infinite  waters  descending;  the  roar 
of  that  torrent;  the  sound  of  his  voice  saying, 
"Don't  let  this  be  the  end  of  things  between  us — 
it  has  grown  too  strong  to  break!"  She  had  not 
heard  again  that  sincerity  of  passion  in  a  human 
voice. 

She  rose  suddenly,  walked  through  the  room  and 
back,  forbidding  her  mind  ever  to  remember  again 
those  great  emotional  experiences  whose  record 
must  likewise  still  exist  in  the  memory  of  the  man 
with  whom  she  had  shared  them.  Only  if  these 
were  ignored  and  made  as  though  they  did  not  exist 
could  she  and  that  man  have  the  friendship  she  de 
sired.  She  looked  at  the  letter,  asking  herself,  "Can 
I  show  it  to  Fedya?"  She  sat  down  and  carefully 
reread  it  with  that  in  view. 

"Why  didn't  he  have  the  sense  to  observe  the 
taboo  he  recognized?"  she  sighed,  and  put  the  letter 
in  her  waist  without  deciding.  She  wanted  Fedya 
to  see  the  criticism  of  the  doctrine  of  superhuman- 
ity.  He  might  have  some  convincing  reply.  It 
would  be  best  to  copy  that  and  burn  the  original. 
As  she  went  about  her  affairs  she  began  systematic- 


THE     CHASM  301 

ally  to  reduce  Walt's  visit  to  its  true  importance. 
To  see  a  friend  or  not — important  of  course,  but 
not  so  world-changing  as  it  seemed  in  her  first  sur 
prise. 

"O  Fedya,"  said  she  at  luncheon,  "do  you  re 
member  Walt  Bradfield?" 

"Not  pleasantly." 

"Of  course — he  was  wrong  that  night.  But  you 
did  hint,  Feodor.  It  has  occurred  to  me  lately  that 
he  took  his  medicine  pretty  well.  I  have  a  letter 
from  him.  He  is  in  Hamburg,  or  perhaps  by  now 
in  Riga.  He  has  an  invention,  a  conservatory  de 
vice,  that  has  made  money,  and  he  wants  to  intro 
duce  it  in  Russia." 

Count  Feodor  merely  sniffed. 

"He  is  coming  here,"  she  said.  "Of  course  we 
may  be  gone,  but  if  not — I  shall  receive  him." 

The  Count  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "One  so 
cialist  more  or  less !" 

"I  copied  the  philosophical  part  of  his  letter," 
she  said,  pushing  it  over  to  him.  "I  would  like 
your  criticism  of  it." 

"Sorry  you  had  to  take  the  trouble  copying. 
Perhaps  the  original  was  illegible." 

She  looked  away,  shaking  her  head  over  the  im 
possibility  of  meeting  insinuations  which  were  per 
haps  not  insinuations,  and  then  she  turned  back. 
"Are  you  criticizing  me  for  not  submitting  my  entire 
correspondence  to  your  censorship?" 

"How  absurd!" 

"Then  don't  say  things  that  sound  spiteful!" 

"Will  you   pardon  me   for   reading?"     He  be- 


302  THE     CHASM 

came  interested  at  the  first  sentence.  u.  .  .  'For  hell 
read  race-degeneration,'  "  he  read,  half  aloud.  "He 
has  it  straight.  Did  you  write  him  all  this?" 

"Just  a  hint." 

"Now  let's  see "  He  finished  reading. 

"What  pleasure  he  takes  in  the  idea  of  the  basest 
mingling  his  blood  with  the  bestl"  said  the  Count, 
tossing  the  sheet  on  the  table. 

"No,  Feodor,"  said  she  gently.  "What  pleases 
him  is  his  proof  of  our  interest  in  having  the  basest 
be  less  base."  Expecting  his  answer  to  the  main 
argument,  she  saw  an  uneasy  look  in  his  face.  Self- 
doubt?  She  was  surprised. 

"I  never  said  the  higher  race  is  a  certainty.  It 
is  a  possibility — and  undeniably  it  is  in  the  power  of 
the  mob  to  thwart  it — if  they  find  out  their  power. 
I  never  said  the  herd  would  not  triumph.  I  say  it 
is  a  pity  if  they  do." 

"But  who  are  the  herd?  Who  are  the  herd's 
superiors?" 

"It  would  take  somewhat  too  long  to  enumerate." 
His  tone  was  an  orphic  one  that  usually  overawed 
her,  but  she  had  lost  her  old  feeling  that  not  to  see 
what  he  saw  was  proof  of  deficient  perception. 

"I  wanted  you  to  meet  Bradfield's  objection  that 
the  existing  class  of  rulers  and  owners,  say  in  Rus 
sia,  does  not  at  all  coincide  with  the  human  material 
that  should  be  selected  to  form  a  higher  breed. 
What  line  excludes  the  numerous  men  like  your 
brother-in-law  and  includes  men  like  Grenning?" 

"So  you  want  to  include  Grenning?" 

That  being  mere  evasion  of  defeat,  she  pressed 
him  no  further. 


THE     CHASM  303 

He  gave  her  a  hostile  look  and  rose.     "I  hear 
you  and  he  are  wonderfully  thick,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  feel  like  speaking,  she  was  so  sorry 
and  ashamed  for  him,  and  Count  Feodor  left  the 
room,  the  weakness  of  his  great  dream  mercilessly 
bare,  missing  the  opportunity  to  give  it  heroic  fare-/ 
well. 


XI 

THREE  or  four  days  before  the  election  the 
Zhergan  police   and  Tschulitsky's   Cossacks 
broke  up  a  meeting  addressed  by  Grenning, 
threatened  him  with  arrest,  and  roughly  dispersed 
the  crowd.    The  faces  of  some  of  the  peasants  were 
cut  with  whips,  and  a  woman  was  badly  trampled. 

In  private  De  Hohenfels  expressed  scorn  of  such 
tactics,  but  it  made  him  angry  when  Marion  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  protest  publicly.  She  had  come 
,to  regard  such  a  protest  as  a  psychic  improbability 
in  any  man  of  his  class.  This  idea  of  hers  irritated 
him,  and  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  lived  so 
long  in  the  habit  of  concealing  dangerous  opinions 
that  he  had  come  to  regard  anything  else  as  a  use 
less  and  foolish  sacrifice  of  self.  From  his  point  of 
view,  therefore,  Marion  was  criticizing  him  for  act 
ing  wisely,  and  admiring  Grenning,  who  had  come 
out  with  a  scathing  protest,  for  acting  foolishly. 

"If  all  men  had  your  wisdom,"  she  said  to  him, 
"the  present  Russian  Government  would  endure  to 
the  end  of  the  world." 

He  reproached  her  for  getting  her  head  full  of 
the  ideas  of  his  political  opponents. 

She  reminded  him  that  she  was  entitled  to  her 
own  political  opinions. 

"Herd-opinions!"  he  scoffed. 
304 


THE    CHASM  305 

"Opinions  leading  to  resolute  action.  We  really 
should  make  good  and  sure  of  manhood  before  as 
piring  to  supermanhood." 

One  word  leading  to  another,  she  told  him  she 
did  not  sympathize  with  his  desire  to  return  to  the 
Duma. 

"May  I  ask  if  it  is  Baron  Medin  with  whom  you 
desire  to  replace  me — in  the  Duma?" 

"Don't  be  nasty,  Feodor." 

"If  you  had  any  respect  for  my  wishes,  you'd 
quit  those  daily  visits  to  the  Social-Democratic 
headquarters." 

"I  do  not  go  to  Sonya  Demidoff's  because  it  is 
the  Social-Democratic  headquarters — if  it  is.  I  go 
there  because  she  and  her  friends  are  all  that  make 
life  in  Russia  supportable." 

"So  I  supposed.     Particularly  her  friends." 

"I'm  sick  of  your  insinuations.  If  you  have  any 
thing  to  say,  say  it — like  a  man.  If  not,  keep  still." 

"How  delicately  you  put  things!" 

"I've  heard  too  many  bitter  things  put  delicately. 
Since  we  are  to  leave  Zhergan  next  week,  I  shall 
make  the  most  of  Sonya  in  the  meantime." 

"And  her  friends?" 

"And  her  friends." 

"Your  frankness  is  astonishing." 

"Not  unless  it  is  wilfully  misunderstood.  Lack  of 
frankness  is  spoiling  our  life,  Fedya." 

"Lack  of  consideration  for  my  wishes  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  the  spoiling." 

"There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do,"  she  said  with 
a  sudden  appeal  to  him  in  her  eyes  and  voice,  " — if 
you  asked  it  in  the  spirit  of  love." 


306  THE     CHASM 

"Said  spirit  to  be  turned  on  at  will  like  a  gas-jet? 
You  say  and  do  things  that  make  such  a  spirit  im 
possible,  and  then  make  my  not  having  it  an  excuse 
for  the  things  you  do." 

"What  things  do  I  do?  I  hold  certain  opinions. 
I  see  certain  people.  These  things  need  no  excuse." 

They  went  their  ways  without  reconciliation,  but 
Marion  did  not  go  that  day  or  the  next  to  Sonya's. 
She  kept  looking  for  a  letter  or  telegram  from 
Walt.  She  thought  by  now  he  must  be  in  Europe. 
The  third  morning  she  mentioned  to  her  husband 
the  fact  that  she  had  not  been  to  the  dressmaker's. 

"Wonderful!"  he  said. 

She  rang  for  a  page.  "Ironic  comment  is  the 
only  reward  for  sacrificing  one's  wishes  to  yours," 
she  said. 

"Must  there  be  a  'reward'?" 

"Do  you  think  observing  your  wishes  such  a  vir 
tue  as  to  be  its  own  reward?  I  do  not.'  She  told 
the  page  to  have  Davuidka  bring  around  the  car 
riage.  "I  am  going  to  Sonya's,"  she  said,  and  went 
to  put  on  her  coat  and  hat. 

It  was  the  day  before  election.  Marion  had  al 
most  given  up  hope  of  Walt's  coming  in  time.  If 
he  did  not  let  her  know  where  to  reach  him,  the  best 
she  could  do  was  to  let  him  come  to  Zhergan  and 
leave  there  a  letter  telling  him  where  she  and  Fedya 
had  gone.  Her  thoughts  turning  to  Sonya,  who 
was  about  to  drop  out  of  her  life,  she  began  to  get 
the  blues.  It  was  a  shame  she  had  sacrificed — for 
no  result — these  last  two  days.  It  might  well  be 
that  Grenning  would  now  be  too  busy  with  the  elec 
tion  to  have  the  farewell  talk  she  had  planned. 


THE    CHASM  307 

As  her  carriage  passed  the  brickyard  and  came 
in  sight  of  the  railway  station,  Davuidka  called, 
"The  soldiers!"  and  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  line 
of  white  tunics  and  bayonets.  They  were  drawn  up 
in  front  of  the  passenger  coach  of  the  train  about  to 
leave  for  Mitau. 

As  the  Hohenfels  droshky  came  closer,  a  man 
with  his  wrists  handcuffed  was  pushed  into  one  of 
the  compartments.  Before  the  door  was  shut  on 
him,  he  turned  to  look  back  at  someone  in  the 
crowd.  Marion  saw  that  it  was  Grenning.  His 
face  was  white  and  grim,  his  head  held  as  though 
the  blow  of  a  rifle-butt  on  the  side  of  it  would  not 
have  made  his  neck  bend. 

Marion  ordered  Davuidka  to  turn  back  to  the 
station  gate.  He  obeyed  mechanically,  and  then, 
too  late  for  any  possible  effect,  voiced  his  protest: 
"Better  keep  away  from  there,  little  mistress  1" 

She  did  not  even  hear  him.  She  sprang  from 
the  carriage  and  hastened  through  the  station  with 
the  feeling  that  somehow  she  must  put  a  stop  to 
that.  There  were  forty  or  fifty  people  kept  back 
from  the  train  by  the  wall  of  soldiers.  In  the 
crowd  she  caught  sight  of  Sonya,  and  started  toward 
her.  Sonya  ran  to  meet  her.  "I  want  money," 
she  said,  under  her  breath.  "Have  you  money? 
Quick  if  you  have — I  must  get  a  ticket  for  Riga." 

Marion  reached  for  her  purse. 

"Don't  give  it  to  her,"  said  a  man's  voice  at  Mar 
ion's  elbow.  She  gave  a  start,  then  saw  it  was 
Kaminsky.  "Sonya :  they'll  spot  you  if  you  rush  off 
on  this  train.  You  have  no  permit.  You  haven't 
even  closed  your  shop." 


THE    CHASM 

"You  close  it." 

Kaminsky  turned  to  Marion.  "Don't  give  her 
money  till  after  this  train  goes,"  he  urged. 

"She  is  judge  of  her  own  acts,"  said  Marion,  and 
opened  her  purse. 

Kaminsky  shook  his  head,  his  eyes  on  Marion's. 
"They'll  get  her  sure  if  you  do!"  warned  he.  The 
train-guard  closed  the  last  compartment,  signaled 
the  engineer,  and  the  train  started.  A  look  of  re 
lief  came  into  Kaminsky's  eyes,  and  into  Sonya's  a 
look  of  sheer  despair.  As  the  coach  glided  by,  they 
looked,  but  could  not  see  Grenning.  At  the  window 
of  his  compartment  sat  soldiers.  Sonya  gave  them 
a  look  of  hatred.  "If  only  everyone  hadn't  been 
at  work!"  groaned  she. 

"You  can  go  tonight,  Sonya,"  said  Kaminsky. 
"It  is  ever  so  much  better.  I  will  go  with  you. 
Zhergan  is  getting  too  hot.  I  promise  you  I  will  do 
all  man  can  do  in  Riga  for  Grenning.  But  it  can't 
be  done  in  an  hour,  nor  a  day.  You  and  I  must 
disappear  from  the  knowledge  of  the  police.  Gren 
ning  may  have  to  tell  them  about  us." 

"He  never  will!"  cried  Sonya. 

"We  will  get  permits  to  go  to  Odessa,  but  in 
Mitau  our  official  existence  ends — pointing  toward 
Odessa.  Another  man  and  woman  will  arrive  in  Riga 
late  tonight." 

"How  about  me?"  asked  Marion. 

"Leave  Russia." 

"Grenning  will  never  tell  them  about  us,"  insisted 
Sonya. 

"Grenning  won't,"  said  Kaminsky. 

Sonya  writhed. 


THE    CHASM  309 

"Sikorsky  is  looking  at  us,"  warned  Kaminsky. 
"He  will  know  Grenning  is  our  only  business  at  this 
train." 

To  Sikorsky  personally  the  three  were  two  wo 
men  who  had  resisted  his  charms,  and  a  Jew — the 
despised  race. 

"Can  you  come  to  Sonya's?"  asked  Kaminsky. 

"Yes.     Come  both  of  you  in  my  carriage." 

"Not  all  three.  Take  Sonya.  I'll  join  you." 
He  turned  and  walked  away. 

The  two  went  out  and  got  into  the  carriage.  "Can 
it  be  they  have  arrested  Grenning  merely  to  prevent 
his  election?"  asked  Marion  hopefully  as  they 
drove  away  from  the  station.  She  spoke  French  so 
Davuidka  could  not  understand. 

Sonya  shook  her  head. 

"What  do  you  hope  to  do  in  Riga,  Sonya?  I 
know  you  must  go — for  your  own  sake,  but  what 
have  you  planned?" 

"I  must  get  poison  to  him." 

Her  quietness  was  uncanny,  suggesting  to  Marion 
that  the  shock  of  seeing  the  arrest  and  the  thought 
of  what  it  meant  had  unbalanced  her.  How  could 
a  normal  mind  accept  that  terrible  conclusion  as  in 
evitable?  Was  Kaminsky's  talk  of  doing  some 
thing  in  Riga  meant  only  to  lessen  Sonya's  despair? 

"He  may  not  know  enough  to  take  poison — when 
they  finish." 

The  horror  deepened  for  Marion,  but  she  gave 
up  the  idea  of  madness  in  Sonya.  But  what  hope 
lessness!  She  remembered  Prince  Demidoff.  His 
daughter  had  hoped  too  long  in  vain. 

They  left  the  carriage  at  the  inn  stable.     As  they 


310  THE     CHASM 

drove  up,  the  hostler  was  saying  to  a  well-to-do 
muzhik,  "Vote  for  him  anyway."  When  they  saw 
Sonya,  the  two  men  gave  her  a  look  of  comprehen 
sion  and  sympathy. 

As  they  walked  to  Sonya's,  Marion  tried  to  get 
the  girl  to  think  of  what  she  was  to  do  with  her 
books  and  things.  That  only  made  her  think  of 
Grenning's  books  and  instruments  there  in  his  rooms 
unused.  The  police  had  locked  and  sealed  the 
doors  and  taken  the  keys. 

At  the  shop  they  met  Fritz  Dumpe  with  Sonya's 
mail.  "Oh — our  mail!"  exclaimed  Marion.  "Let 
me  see  the  mail  for  the  manor!"  The  postman 
found  it  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  ran  it  over. 
Nothing! 

The  mail-carrier  wanted  to  know  about  Gren- 
ning.  "If  Mitrevitz  only  knew!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Mitrevitz  would  stop  the  train  and  take  Gren- 
ning  off." 

Sonya's  eyes  lit  up,  but  only  for  an  instant.  There 
was  no  possible  way  to  let  Mitrevitz  know.  Dumpe 
gave  her  her  mail.  "You  might  as  well  take  Ka- 
minsky's  too,"  he  said.  "No  use  leaving  it  lie  around. 
There's  a  letter  from  Riga — came  this  morning. 
The  censor  doesn't  get  a  chance  to  read  Kaminsky's 
letters."  He  gave  a  wink.  The  limit  he  had 
placed  on  the  otherwise  unlimited  power  of  the 
censor  was  pure  joy  to  him. 

"Comrade  Dumpe,"  said  Marion,  "does  the  cen 
sor  ever  hold  out  letters  for  the  manor?" 

"I  never  thought  to  see.  I  can  find  out.  He 
didn't  use  to.  Does  it  matter — much,  I  mean?" 

"I'm  expecting  nothing  political,"  said  Marion. 


THE    CHASM  311 

"I  was  just  wondering — yes,  find  out  if  any  letter 
for  me  has  not  been  delivered.  I  don't  think  any 
thing  can  ever  darken  the  world  for  you,  Comrade 
Dumpe,"  she  ended,  glancing  at  Sonya.  At  "com 
rade"  as  a  substitute  for  the  "master"  disguised  in 
"Mr.,"  the  Countess  had  sometimes  smiled — as  a 
piece  of  make-believe — a  pretense  that  the  visioned 
future  was  already  here;  but  addressing  the  mail- 
carrier,  she  found  no  other  form  of  speech  that 
sounded  right. 

Comrade  Dumpe  admitted  he  liked  being  alive. 

When  Kaminsky  came,  Marion  gave  him  the  let 
ter  from  Riga,  and  waited  to  see  if  it  threw  any 
light  on  the  arrest. 

Kaminsky  tore  it  open,  and  sat  down  to  read  it. 
It  was  in  familiar  cipher.  The  others  watched  his 
expression.  "Smika  is  a  maniac,"  he  said.  "Some 
where  in  the  ruins  they  learned  of  Grenning." 

"In  the  ruins  of  Grenning  will  they  learn  of  us?" 
thought  Marion. 

"Why  didn't  your  man  telegraph?"  Sonya  de 
manded  passionately. 

Kaminsky  shook  his  head.  "The  night  operator 
here  is  against  us.  Listen  to  this.  It's  from  our 
man  in  the  detective  division  of  the  Riga  police. 
'I  can't  stay  here  much  longer.  If  I  did,  I'd  turn 
monster  like  Gregus  and  Davus.  I  make  an  ex 
cuse  to  be  away  from  the  torture  chamber,  and  then 
find  a  horrible  fascination  drawing  me  to  it.  I  un 
derstand  now  how  the  autocracy  can  get  men  to  do 
this  work.  They  come  to  crave  it.'  ' 

Sonya  sprang  up,  gave  Kaminsky  a  look  of  bitter 
ness,  and  went  out  into  the  shop. 


312  THE    CHASM 

"I  think  she  understands,"  said  Kaminsky.  "It 
hits  too  hard — now.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Understand!     Absolutely  not." 

"You  ought  to.  This  is  good  propaganda.  He 
read:  'The  shock  on  the  nerves  of  a  man  who  tears 
out  another's  finger-nail  and  feels  his  victim  quiver 
is  intense.  This  intense  sensation  soon  becomes  an 
object  of  desire.  I  understand  the  cat  with  the 
mouse.  I  understand  the  tortures  inflicted  by  sav 
ages.  I  understand  Gregus  and  Davus  and  Zim- 
mermann.  The  trade  of  Gregus  has  reshaped  him 
— in  a  way  I  do  not  care  to  be  reshaped.  The  sight 
of  someone's  agony  is  all  that  gives  him  sexual  grati 
fication.  He  awaits  the  hour  of  torture  as  a  normal 
youth  awaits  a  night  with  a  woman.  For  women 
he  cares  nothing.  Davus  is  still  one  step  from  that. 
He  rushed  from  the  torture  chamber  to  wreak  his 
lust  upon  the  women  of  the  town.  I  think  probably 
the  savages  who  gave  no  sign  of  pain  under  torture 
so  acted  in  order  to  deprive  their  enemies  of  actual 
physical  gratification.  Gregus  and  Davus  and  Zim- 
mermann  are  not  so  robbed  of  their  delight  by  mod 
ern  victims.  There  are  screams  of  horror  that  go 
to  the  marrow  of  whomsoever  hears.'  ' 

"Is  there  no  one  to  kill  these  men?"  said  Marion 
hoarsely.  Something  that  had  been  soft  in  her  soul 
seemed  to  harden  into  steel. 

"Yes,"  Kaminsky  answered,  significantly.  "Or 
better — the  men  who  set  these  at  this  work.  Do 
you  blame  the  Social  Revolutionists  for  looking 
coldly  on  a  parliament  called  by  this  government? 
Do  you  blame  us  for  grasping  terrorism  as  a 
weapon?" 


THE     CHASM  313 

"I  blame  you  for  nothing!  I  could  kill  these  men 
with  my  own  hands !  I  blame  the  civilized  world 
for  permitting  such  a  regime  as  this  to  remain  on 
earth!" 

"Permitting  it!  The  financiers  of  the  civilized 
world  maintain  it!  The  wages  of  Gregus  are  paid 
with  the  money  of  New  York  bondbuyers." 

"Yes,"  thought  Marion  bitterly,  "and  Feodor  de 
Hohenfels  maintains  it!" 

Sonya  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  "Nach- 
man,"  she  said,  passionately,  "the  thing  to  think 
about  today  is  Grenning  on  his  way  to  the  claws  of 
Gregus!" 

"As  though  I  were  not  here  shaping  a  force  for 
his  deliverance!"  thought  Kaminsky  resentfully;  but 
instead  of  defending  himself,  he  preferred  to  let 
Marion  suspect  him  of  lukewarmness,  knowing  with 
quick  instinct  that  if  she  did  not  place  too  much 
faith  in  him  she  would  feel  more  powerfully  the  im 
pulse  to  act  herself.  She  looked  at  him  expectantly, 
and  he  kept  silent. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  will  not  know  till  I  get  to  Riga  and  see." 

"Why  can't  your  police  confederate  contrive 
Grenning's  escape?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  would  have  contrived 
Smika's  if  he  had  had  the  power." 

"He  can  carry  poison,"  said  Sonya,  softly. 
"Poison  is  beautiful,  unruining  death!" 

"Sonya,  why  do  you  think  of  the  last  resort  first?" 
cried  Marion.  "Kaminsky,  can  these  insane  beasts 
be  bought?" 

"Undoubtedly  they  can,"  replied  the  Jew.     "Only 


THE     CHASM 

— what  of  the  buyer?  His  offer  is  a  confession  of 
complicity.  What  is  to  prevent  their  seizing  him?" 

Marion  looked  at  him  with  a  decreasing  opinion 
of  his  courage  and  resourcefulness.  "Some  way 
must  be  found!"  she  said.  "What  time  does  your 
train  go  tonight?" 

"Seven  o'clock." 

"We  are  going  anyhow  day  after  tomorrow," 
she  mused. 

"Day  after  tomorrow  is  long  enough  to  make  the 
Grenning  you  knew  a  maimed  old  man!"  cried 
Sonya.  "Come  to  Riga  tonight." 

"I  may  have  to,  to  get  the  money,"  said  Marion. 
She  saw  the  situation  calling  for  the  sacrifice  of  her 
last  chance  of  being  in  Zhergan  when  Walt  ar 
rived.  "How  much  do  you  think  it  will  take,  Ka- 
minsky?" 

"I  do  not  know.  We  have  never  had  enough 
money  to  try  it." 

"Five  thousand  roubles?  Ten  thousand?  Twen 
ty-five?" 

"Really  I've  no  idea.  Terrible  things  are  done 
for  much  less  than  five  thousand.  But  the  larger 
the  sum  the  greater  temptation — and  surer  result." 

"Could  I  give  you  a  check  on  Riga?" 

"A  check!  To  establish  my  connection  with  you, 
and  yours  with  me,  make  me  declare  my  presence 
officially  in  Riga,  and " 

"No,  no,"  she  interrupted.  "I  see  it  won't  do." 
She  wondered  what  excuse  she  could  give  Feodor. 
Well,  he  would  have  to  think  what  he  would.  "I'll 
go  tonight,"  she  said,  and  rose. 


THE     CHASM  315 

"Much  the  best,"  said  Kaminsky.  "They  can 
not  lay  hands  on  you  so  easily  in  a  large  city.  Riga 
is  a  door  from  Russia.  If  necessary  we  can  slip 
you  through  on  an  emigrant  ship." 

Sonya  came  and  clung  to  Marion  and  sobbed 
convulsively. 

"You — of  all  people,  Sonya !" 

Sonya  tried  in  vain  to  stop.  "I  could — stand 
everything — till  I  began  to  hope!" 

All  that  day  at  home  Marion  was  tense  with  feel 
ing  of  danger  and  uncertainty.  At  luncheon  she 
could  not  eat.  In  her  mind  ideas  independent  of 
her  will  were  blazing,  leading  to  others,  passing. 
"It  thought"  within  her — as  one  says  "it  rains." 
She  no  longer  felt  free  as  of  old  to  choose  her  way. 
Her  way  was  being  marked  for  her — by  things, 
events,  outside  herself.  She  had  to  follow  the 
marks.  She  noticed  the  visible  beat  of  her  pulse  in  two 
places  on  her  wrist.  She  nodded  to  the  servants 
to  withdraw. 

"Did  you  hear  about  Grenning?"  She  spoke  with 
a  calmness  that  both  surprised  and  reassured  her. 

"Kronberg  came  and  told  me,"  replied  Count 
Feodor. 

"Are  you  going  to  do  anything?" 

"I?" 

"I  thought  you  might  wish  to  use  your  influence 
to  keep  a  man  like  that  from  being  tortured." 

"I  fail  to  see "    He  paused. 

She  waited. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
him  innocent  of  the  charge  against  him.  If  I 


316  THE     CHASM 

thought  it  was  merely  pity  for  the  man  which  moved 
you " 

"What  then?" 

He  smiled.  "I  should  then  preach  a  sermon  on  the 
morbid  psychology  of  pity." 

She  was  anything  but  amused.  "What  is  the 
charge  against  Grenning?" 

"Being  a  spy.  Giving  secret  information  to  Mi- 
trevitz.  Apparently  it's  about  the  thing  Sikorsky 
wanted  to  accuse  me  of."  He  said  this  nonchalant 
ly;  then  suddenly  looked  keenly  at  Marion.  He 
leaned  abruptly  forward,  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
palm  up,  forefinger  pointing  toward  her,  and  opened 
his  lips  to  speak — then  checked  his  fierce  question, 
sat  back,  and  was  thinking  hard. 

"I  am  going  to  Riga  tonight,"  she  said. 

"What  for?" 

"To  free  Grenning." 

He  tried  to  beat  down  her  eyes  with  his.  She 
paid  no  attention,  and  went  on,  "I  may  have  to  stay 
for  a  time  in  Riga.  I  can  rejoin  you  from  there 
in "  She  started  to  say  St.  Petersburg,  but  re 
membered  that  that  city  was  located  in  Russia.  "If 
Bradfield  comes  here  before  you  leave,  I  wish  you 
would  tell  him  to  come  to  see  me  in  Riga.  I  will 
have  to  send  you  my  Riga  address  tomorrow." 

"Is  this  an  avowal  of  your  liaison?"  demanded 
Count  Feodor. 

"No — since  I  have  none." 

"The  information  Grenning  is  accused  of  furnish 
ing  was  contained  in  the  Governor  General's  letter 
which  I  read  to  you.  Where  did  Grenning  get  it? 


THE     CHASM  317 

Did  you  tell  him  about  that  intended  night  attack?" 

"If  I  had,  it  would  imply  no  liaison." 

"Why  then  should  you  tell  him?" 

She  gave  a  gesture  of  impatience.  UI  may  as 
well  tell  you.  I  did  not  give  that  or  any  other  in 
formation  to  Grenning.  He  is  no  spy.  That  in 
formation  crossed  the  chasm  from  government  to 
revolutionist  when  it  passed  from  you  to  me.  It 
reached  Mitrevitz — through  mel" 

"What  treachery!"  He  spoke  with  loathing.  "A 
spy  in  one's  own  bed!" 

"Treachery!  To  what?  The  Russian  govern 
ment?  I  hate  and  despise  it!  My  motive  when  I 
did  it  was  merely  to  save  Mitrevitz  and  his  men 
from  its  horrible  tortures.  Since  then  I  have  ad 
vanced.  I  would  do  it  now  to  help  destroy  your 
hateful  government." 

"I  am  not  a  supporter  of  the  government." 

"What  childish  folly!  You  are!  You  fight  the 
only  forces  that  can  end  it.  And  it  supports  you — 
your  property,  your  title.  For  all  you  have  ever 
done  or  will  do  the  bureaucracy  would  go  on  un 
changed  forever.  You  profit  by  the  grinding  of  the 
people  which  it  decrees  and  bloodily  enforces.  In 
music  you  try  to  exalt  existing  economic  misery — as 
something  beautiful!" 

"Don't  go  into  esthetics.  You  know  nothing 
about  it.  In  all  you  say  about  this  business  you  show 
yourself  morally  obtuse.  That  act  of  yours  was 
treachery  to  me!" 

"How  unconsciously  and  completely  you  identify 
your  interest  with  that  of  the  government !  Don't 


318  THE    CHASM 

say  treachery  to  me  I  A  .man  who  sends  govern 
ment  troops  against  the  revolutionists  is  a  traitor 
to  the  Russian  people!" 

"And  I  took  you  for  a  natural  aristocrat!  You 
are  simply  crazy  with  your  democratic  rot!" 

"One  must  be  a  block  of  wood  to  remain  sane  in 
Russia." 

"Do  you  realize  that  I  swore  to  Sikorsky  that  I 
had  revealed  the  government  plans  to  no  one? 
What  do  you  suppose  will  happen  when  what  you 
have  done  comes  out?" 

"Is  that  all  you  can  think  of — that  you  may  be 
caught  in  a  lie — a  lie  you  were  proud  of — when 
what  I  have  done  comes  out?" 

He  saw  scorn  deepening  in  her  eyes,  and  turned 
red.  "Do  you  expect  to  go  on  living  with  me?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  have  been  wondering.  I  had  not  made  up  my 
mind.  But " 

"Yes,  'but' !  You  hate  the  government,  and 
however  falsely,  you  identify  me  with  it.  The  in 
ference  is  obvious." 

"I  do  not  hate  you.  I  made  up  my  mind  this 
morning  to  be  guilty  of  no  more  well-intentioned 
deceit  toward  you.  I  meant  to  tell  you  that  I  no 
longer  have  any  respect  for  any  Russian  who  is  not 
a  revolutionist.  But  now — a  man  whose  wife  may 

be  given  into  the  hands  of  insane  human  beasts 

And  you  think  only  of  some  inconvenience  to  your 
self!  One  can  approve  the  egotism  of  a  large  na 
ture.  But  this!  You  have  a  very  much  smaller 
soul  than  I  thought  possible !" 

"That  is  too  much!     Insults  like  these  are  unfor- 


THE    CHASM  319 

givable.  Our  living  together  is  out  of  the  question." 
She  sat  quiet  a  moment,  wondering  that  the  final 
knowledge  of  the  death  of  love  should  be  so  pain 
less.  "I  thank  you — really — for  deciding.  I  give 
you  credit  for  at  least  not  pretending  to  feel  things 
you  do  not." 

"I  find  I  have  no  talent  for  husbandhood,"  he 
said,  relieved  of  his  fear  of  heroics.  "Approach 
and  capture  charm.  Possession  cloys." 

"Possession?  Yes,  that  is  your  antique  error! 
Oh,  I  am  glad  we  have  no  baby!"  She  rose  quickly, 
left  the  room,  ran  upstairs,  and  locked  her  door, — 
before  she  broke  down. 


XII 

NEXT  morning  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels's 
slumber  was  broken  by  the  unaccustomed 
clink  of  iron-shod  hoofs  on  paving-stones,  the 
rumble  of  wheels,  the  melancholy  chant  of  city 
street  cries.  She  knew  it  could  not  be  Chicago; 
she  was  afraid  it  was  St.  Petersburg;  and  then  link 
ing  the  life  of  to-day  with  that  of  yesterday,  she 
made  out  the  large  hotel  room  in  which  she  lay 
alone,  and  murmured  "Riga!"  Riga,  she  knew, 
was  more  strange  and  terrible  than  St.  Petersburg, 
but  why?  "Grenning!"  Somewhere  in  this  city  lay 
Grenning.  Already  Gregus  must  have  laid  eyes  on 
him — eyes  of  terrible  lust!  That  was  the  over- 
towering,  difficult,  immediate  thing — to  free  Gren 
ning!  She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  too  early 
to  do  anything,  but  her  desire  for  action,  her  feeling 
that  an  unforeseen  emergency  might  arise  at  any 
time,  forced  her  to  rise  and  begin  dressing. 

The  events  of  the  night  before  crowded  through 
her  mind — her  departure  alone — driven  for  the  last 
time  by  Davuidka — the  lights  of  Feyda's  manor  far 
in  the  night — last  seen  from  her  car  window— the 
railway  journey  with  Sonya,  tense  to  the  breaking 
point,  and  Kaminsky,  watching  everyone  without 
showing  it — her  open  farewell  to  the  two,  acted  for 

320 


THE     CHASM  321 

the  benefit  of  detectives  in  Mitau.  There  the  revo 
lutionists  were  to  help  Sonya  and  Kaminsky  change 
their  names,  passports,  destinations,  clothes,  pro 
fessions,  personalities.  They  would  leave  Mitau  a 
third-guild  leather-merchant  and  his  wife.  They 
must  be  now  in  Riga — in  rooms  over  a  German 
bookseller's  in  the  Kaufstrasse.  Marion  wanted  to 
rejoin  Sonya  as  soon  as  possible.  Sonya  had  urged 
her  to  leave  them  what  money  she  could  and  get 
away  from  Russia  at  once,  but  the  girl  was  under 
terrible  strain,  was  likely  to  go  all  to  pieces  if  they 
failed  to  save  Grenning,  and  Marion  definitely  de 
clined  to  leave  the  best  friend  she  had  in  Russia 
like  that.  She  was  going  to  stay  till  Grenning  was 
free — or  all  hope  gone.  The  Countess  de  Hohen- 
fels  was  to  exist  just  long  enough  to  get  her  money 
from  the  Riga  bank.  She  had  written  from  Zher- 
gan  that  she  would  call  personally  this  morning. 
As  soon  as  she  had  that  money  the  Countess  would 
disappear. 

She  was  sorry  for  Walt- — and  for  herself — after 
his  long  journey  from  America.  He  would  try  to 
trace  her  and  would  lose  the  trail.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  help  for  it.  The  nets  were  being  drawn 
too  tight  to  risk  exposure  a  single  unnecessary  hour. 
The  hotel  people  might  already  be  asking  how  it 
happened  that  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels  came  in 
in  the  night  alone.  Wishing  now  that  she  had 
learned  to  use  it  better,  she  took  from  beneath  the 
bed  and  put  into  her  handbag  her  automatic  pistol. 
Fedya  had  given  it  to  her.  The  thought  of  Fedya, 
the  memory  of  the  first  days  of  their  marriage,  swept 
her  soul.  She  stood  still,  thinking;  then  slowly 


322  THE     CHASM 

shook  her  head.  The  thought  of  him  had  nothing 
for  her  but  deadening  of  heart.  It  was  over! 

Her  soul  had  been  arctic  yesterday  afternoon  in 
that  final,  formal  conference  in  which  Count  Feo- 
dor  discussed  the  question  of  divorce.  He  assured 
her  that  under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would  of 
course  think  of  nothing  but  of  allowing  her  to  ob 
tain  it — though  the  Russian  law  would  not  in  that 
case  permit  him  to  remarry.  "Not  that  I  wish  to 
remarry,"  he  explained,  " — at  least  till  after  I  have 
lived  the  best  of  life.  But  the  time  will  come  when 
there  should  be  an  heir  to  the  name  of  Hohenfels. 
Of  course  legitimization  is  possible,  but — since  you 
will  not  live  in  Russia,  and  will  therefore  not  be 
subject  to  the  restrictions  of  the  Russian  law " 

"Of  course,"  she  had  answered.  "Obtain  the  di 
vorce  yourself." 

"Thank  you.  Is  there  any  reason  for  delay  in 
the  matter?" 

"I  have  none."  It  did  not  seem  real  to  her — 
the  iron  tone  between  her  and  the  man  who  had  been 
her  lover  and  her  husband. 

She  had  impressed  even  herself  as  a  person  with 
out  emotion.  Mayor  Ronke  had  come  at  her  re 
quest  to  the  manor/  She  empowered  him  to  act  as 
her  advocate  in  the  suit  to  be  brought  in  Mitau,  in 
structing  him  not  to  contest.  Through  him  she  com 
pleted  arrangements  for  the  transfer  to  the  Count 
de  Hohenfels  of  the  Zhergan  estate  and  her  Kieff- 
Vorones  stock,  and  the  Mayor,  dazed  by  the  magni 
tude  of  his  realized  and  prospective  fees,  sent  her 
her  police  permit  to  leave  Zhergan  and  the  pass 
port  entitling  her  to  leave  Russia.  She  was  dubious, 


THE    CHASM  323 

in  view  of  her  known  friendship  with  Grenning, 
whether  the  national  and  Riga  authorities  would 
permit  her  to  leave.  She  was  not  at  all  sure  that 
Tschulitsky  and  Sikorsky,  connecting  her  flight  with 
Grenning's  arrest,  would  not  today  be  taking  steps 

through  the  detective  division She  shuddered, 

opened  her  handbag,  made  sure  again  of  the  readi 
ness  of  the  pistol. 

She  met  no  obstacles,  after  her  coffee  and  rolls, 
in  paying  her  hotel  bill,  conveying  the  impression 
that  she  was  leaving  that  day  for  America,  and  get 
ting  away  in  a  cab  for  the  Bank  of  Riga.  Watch 
ing  the  sidewalk  crowds  it  struck  her  that  Brad- 
field  might  this  very  day  be  passing  through  Riga 
on  his  way  to  Zhergan;  and  as  soon  as  she  began  to 
look  for  him  several  men  at  a  distance  resembled 
him. 

At  the  bank,  a  distinguished-looking  polyglot 
gentleman  with  frock-coat  and  monocle  received  her 
with  formal  hospitality  in  a  room  with  semiparti- 
tions  of  hard  wood — a  room  carefully  unsuggestive 
of  bookkeeping.  After  waiting  a  few  minutes  in 
trepidation  lest  they  should  require  inconvenient 
identification,  the  Countess  learned  that  they  had  re 
ceived  her  letter.  She  made  out  a  check  for  the 
exact  amount  that  stood  to  her  credit  in  the  house — 
nearly  thirty  thousand  roubles. 

The  bank-clerk  asked  in  what  form  she  desired 
the  money,  noted  her  reply  on  a  small  piece  of  paper, 
touched  a  button,  and  with  no  word  spoken,  handed 
check  and  note  to  a  uniformed  bank  messenger,  and 
made  a  polite  remark  about  the  weather.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  messenger  returned  with  a  few  gold  and 


324  THE    CHASM 

silver  coins,  stacked  on  a  little  green  felt  mat  on  a 
salver,  and  three  packets  of  bank-notes — ten  one 
thousand  rouble  notes,  the  rest  in  hundreds — the 
largest  denomination  the  men  for  whom  the  money 
was  intended  might  be  willing  to  accept. 

Noting  her  dismay  at  the  bulk  of  the  packets,  the 
clerk  observed  it  was  quite  a  sum  to  carry  person 
ally. 

She  explained  that  she  was  about  to  make  a  visit 
to  America — whereat  the  financial  gentleman  looked 
surprised.  "We  can  furnish  you  with  American  cur 
rency,"  he  said. 

She  mentioned  obligations  to  be  met  before  she 
sailed,  put  the  Russian  money  in  her  handbag,  and 
left  the  bank  uneasy.  No  one  appeared  to  be  fol 
lowing  her,  but  instead  of  driving  to  her  rendezvous 
in  the  Kaufstrasse  she  went  to  the  warehouse  of  the 
United  States  Plow  Company,  leaving  her  cab  in 
front  of  the  office. 

Introducing  herself  to  her  father's  Riga  agent, 
and  incidentally  saying  things  that  convinced  him 
she  was  really  the  president's  daughter,  she  ar 
ranged  to  have  her  trunks  and  boxes  coming  from 
Zhergan  received  and  held  subject  to  her  order. 
The  American  gave  her  sailing  lists  of  the  steamers 
out  of  Riga.  She  noticed  that  there  were  none  after 
November,  the  gulf  being  ice-bound  in  mid-winter. 
On  the  pretense  of  wishing  to  see  it,  she  went 
through  the  warehouse.  Recognizing  a  young  man 
she  had  known  by  sight  in  Moline,  she  felt  like  hug 
ging  him.  She  asked  him  his  name,  and  inadvertent 
ly  left  him  full  of  visions  of  romantic  promotion. 
She  gave  him  the  money  to  pay  off  the  cabman 


THE     CHASM  325 

in  front  of  the  office — after  awhile — and  went  out 
on  the  other  side  of  the  great  warehouse. 

On  foot,  suit  case  in  one  hand,  in  the  other  the 
handbag  whose  loss  would  be  fatal,  she  found  the 
crowded  Kaufstrasse,  and  the  number,  and  the  near 
sighted  German  bookseller's,  and  climbed  to  a  not 
very  elegant  third-story  furnished  flat.  Sonya  was 
there  waiting.  Marion  held  her  in  her  arms.  She 
would  hardly  have  recognized  her.  Poor  Sonya  !  It 
was  not  wholly  the  artificial  changes  that  disguised 
and  aged  her.  Thoughts  that  came  in  the  nigh't 
must  have  been  dreadful  to  her. 

Kaminsky  had  not  yet  returned  from  an  interview 
with  his  informant  of  the  detective  division — the 
revolutionary  spy  in  the  third  section  of  the  Riga 
police,  from  whom  he  expected  to  learn  just  what 
could  be  done  for  Grenning. 

Sonya  had  already  been  out  and  located  the  prison 
in  which  Grenning  was  confined.  It  stood  in  a  small, 
irregular,  cobble-stoned  plaza.  The  narrow,  pre- 
Russian  streets  that  led  to  it  ran  up-hill,  and  from  it 
there  was  a  distant  glimpse  of  the  Dwina  sliding 
to  the  gulf.  It  was  a  long,  gray-plastered,  three- 
story  building  with  iron-shuttered  windows,  not  much 
different  from  the  surrounding  buildings  except  that 
its  walls  bore  no  crudely  frescoed  pictures  of  boots, 
keys,  clothing,  or  other  objects  for  sale.  From  the 
front  the  only  places  Sonya  could  see  into  were  a 
wide  doorway  opening  into  a  corridor  paved  with 
square  brown  bricks  or  tiles,  and  beside  this  a  small 
uncarpeted  business  office  with  roller-top  desks,  low 
pilastered  wooden  railings  with  gates,  and  two  or 
three  black  horsehair  sofas  somewhat  humpy  and 


THE     CHASM 

worn  through  in  spots  to  dingy  once-white  canvas. 
There  was  an  ikon  in  one  corner,  and  a  gilt-framed, 
fly-specked  lithograph  of  Tsar  Nicholas  II  on  the 
unpapered  wall. 

There  were  buildings  or  blind  walls  across  the 
streets  and  alleys  which,  at  one  time,  had  led  past 
the  rear  of  that  tragic,  commonplace-looking  struc 
ture,  in  some  dim  cell  of  which  sat  Ferdinand  Gren- 
ning,  still  a  high-souled,  unmutilated  man  with  sur 
geon's  fingers  still  sound  and  flexible.  Walking  past 
casuflly,  her  eyes  taking  in  everything  with  the  in 
tensity  of  fever,  went  Sonya  Demidoff,  who  loved 
that  man,  and  knew  her  native  land  as  a  place  unfit 
for  the  mating  of  man  and  woman. 

Sonya  going  to  answer  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  Marion  instinctively  caught  up  her 
handbag,  thinking  how  useless  her  pistol  would  be 
shut  away  with  the  money  inside  the  bag.  The 
tradesman  Sonya  permitted  to  walk  in  past  her 
looked  at  Marion  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction.  "I 
see  you  got  it,"  said  he,  nodding  at  the  handbag, 
and  she  finally  realized  it  was  Kaminsky. 

He  told  them  there  were  fifteen  revolutionists  be 
sides  Grenning  and  Smika  being  held  in  the  central 
prison  and  in  the  station  of  the  detective  division  for 
trial  by  a  field  court-martial  which  might  not  sit  for 
several  weeks.  It  was  illegal  extension  of  the  powers 
of  the  field  court-martial,  but  seeking  legal  redress 
was  futile.  The  third  section  would  have  ample 
time  in  which  to  secure  "confessions."  He  did  not 
tell  the  women  that  Grenning  had  already  been  tak 
en  to  look  at  the  glaring,  cowering  wreck  of  the 
forester  Smika — in  order  that  a  vivid  picture  of  what 


THE    CHASM  327 

was  in  store  for  him  might  be  working  on  his  mind. 

"What's  to  be  done  for  Grenning?"  demanded 
Sonya. 

"We  thought  of  two  things,"  said  Kaminsky. 
"Comrade  M.  will  be  in  charge  of  the  station  next 
Wednesday  night.  If  he  ordered  the  warder  and 
turnkey  to  release  Grenning  there  is  no  way  to  keep 
Thursday  morning's  investigation  from  locating  re 
sponsibility." 

"Let  M.  do  it  and  leave  Russia  with  us,"  Marion 
urged. 

Kaminsky  shook  his  head.  "He  is  much  too  valu 
able  where  he  is."  He  looked  at  Marion.  "No  one 
man  among  us"  he  said,  "need  expect  to  have  the 
interests  of  many  sacrificed  for  him.  Let  me  do 
Grenning  justice — he  would  not  have  it." 

Sonya  and  Marion  exchanged  a  glance  recogniz 
ing  the  predominance  of  the  Cause.  "I  do  not  see 
that  he's  of  much  value  if  he  can't  keep  men  from 
being  tortured,"  said  Marion  unreasonably. 

"Do  you  remember  he  let  us  know  of  Smika's  ar 
rest?  And  when  Smika  told  of  Grenning,  Grenning 
was  warned  by  M.  through  me." 

"Is  that  warning  to  be  made  a  reason  for  doing 
nothing  for  Grenning?"  flashed  Sonya. 

"No,  Sonya.  M.  will  try  the  other  thing  we 
thought  of.  It's  this:  the  first  chance  he  gets  he's 
going  to  let  Davus  know  there's  ten  thousand  roubles 
for  the  escape  of  Grenning — non-political  source — 
personal  interest  of  a  wealthy  noblewoman.  Davus 
is  chief — would  investigate  himself.  M.  will  mere 
ly  mention  as  a  piece  of  gossip  that  this  offer  has 
been  made  to  him.  Davus  may  look  it  up  himself. 


328  THE     CHASM 

The  drawback  is — someone  has  to  be  named  finally 
as  the  person  who  will  pay  the  money,  and  if  Davus 
double-crosses " 

"Tell  M.  to  name  me,"  said  Sonya.  "I  am  here 
for  just  that  thing." 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Kaminsky.  "If  that  has  to 
be  done  I'll  do  it — with  every  precaution.  We 
might  be  able  to  leave  the  money  in  a  stipulated 
place.  The  whole  thing  depends  on  how  Davus  re 
acts.  You  mustn't  expect  the  very  first  thing  we  try 
to  succeed,  Sonya.  You  must  be  patient.  It  may  be 
two  or  three  days  before  M.  can  find  the  right  time 
and  place  to  speak  to  Davus."  He  turned  to  Marion. 
"Are  you  going  to  sail?" 

"Why  no,"  she  answered.  "We  settled  that  last 
night." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  to?  Do  you  realize 
the  risk?" 

"I  realize.     I  can't  leave." 

"All  right.  In  that  case  a  woman,  an  English 
governess  out  of  a  place,  will  sail  to-day  for  London 
as  Countess  de  Hohenfels.  We  pay  her  passage  and 
five  hundred  roubles  in  consideration  of  risk  of  ar 
rest.  Give  me  the  money,  your  passport,  etc.,  and 
I'll  bring  you  hers.  No,  I'll  bring  new  papers  and 
you'll  not  risk  being  found  ignorant  of  your  own 
history.  You  are  Miss  Baker,  fresh  from  England, 
looking  for  a  governess's  place.  Make  yourself 
older,  not  so  good-looking." 

Marion  gave  him  the  money  and  papers. 

"You  understand  the  advantage,"  he  said.  "The 
police  mark  you  down  out  of  the  country  and  won't 


THE    CHASM  329 

look  for  you  here  if  Grenning — if  in  any  way — 
through  your  husband,  through  anyone  in  Zher- 
gan — they  trace  to  you  that  message  warning 
Mitrevitz." 

He  went  to  close  the  bargain  with  the  English 
woman  and  came  back  at  noon  with  Miss  Baker's 
English  passport,  registered  and  stamped  with  the 
regular  notice  that  she  could  not  leave  Russia  with 
out  a  police  permit.  He  also  had  the  police  permit 
— signed  but  undated,  and  proper  papers  for  Sonya, 
Grenning,  and  himself — though  he  said  he  himself 
would  not  leave  the  country  unless  some  new  de 
velopments  made  his  stay  too  risky. 

An  event  next  morning  made  Marion  think  it 
risky  enough  as  it  was.  She  was  playing  the  un 
wonted  role  of  housemaid,  cleaning  her  room  after 
breakfast,  when  she  heard  Sonya  and  Kaminsky 
talking  with  some  men  in  the  front  room.  She  looked 
in,  and  nearly  dropped  at  the  sight  of  two  police 
officers,  questioning  Sonya  and  Kaminsky  and  mak 
ing  notes  of  their  replies.  "Traced  from  Zhergan  !" 
thought  she.  "They've  established  our  connection 
with  Grenning." 

"And  you?"  demanded  one  of  the  officers,  glaring 
at  her. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"She  doesn't  speak  much  Russian,"  said  Sonya. 

"The  Englishwoman?"  asked  the  other  officer. 

"Yes,"  said  Kaminsky.     "The  roomer." 

Marion  saw  a  gleam  of  hope. 

"They'll  want  to  see  your  passport,"  said  Sonya 
in  French. 


THE    CHASM 

Going  to  get  it,  Marion  had  a  moment  to  recover, 
to  hide  her  thirty  thousand  roubles,  and  throw  her 
self  into  her  part. 

At  the  close  of  their  domiciliary  visit  the  officers 
informed  the  leather  merchant  that  he  was  fined 
one  hundred  roubles  for  taking  up  residence  without 
permit.  Kaminsky  protested  that  the  party  who  sub 
let  him  the  apartment  told  him  he  would  make  every 
thing  straight  with  the  authorities.  Finally  yielding 
the  principle  sullenly  in  the  face  of  mysterious 
threats,  he  made  the  officers  think  he  could  not  scrape 
up  one  hundred  roubles  between  himself  and  his 
wife,  and  appealed  to  their  roomer,  Miss  Baker,  to 
advance  them  enough  to  make  up  the  fine.  The  of 
ficers  pocketed  it  and  departed,  satisfied  they  had 
secured  all  the  traffic  would  bear. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone  Marion  nearly  col 
lapsed. 

"They  might  have  caught  us  at  a  worse  time," 
said  Kaminsky  consolingly.  "These  petty  grafters 
are  not  the  ones  we  have  to  look  out  for.  They  con 
sider  us  dry  for  the  present.  It  was  a  little  hard  on 
you,  Countess  Marion,  because  you  didn't  know 
their  brand.  You'll  have  more  confidence  next 
time." 

They  scanned  the  evening  paper  for  indication 
whether  the  sham  Countess  de  Hohenfels  had  been 
intercepted  at  the  dock. 

"Here!"  exclaimed  Sonya,  catching  the  name 
Countess  de  Hohenfels.  They  found  it  was  a  dis 
patch  from  Mitau  announcing  that  Count  Feodor  de 
Hohenfels  had  filed  a  petition  for  divorce  from  the 
Countess  Marion,  his  American  wife,  and  that  the 


THE     CHASM  331 

case  would  be  heard  at  an  early  date  before  the  Mag 
istrate  Intendant  Bratavzinsky.  Count  Feodor,  the 
dispatch  added,  was  being  detained,  until  after  the 
hearing,  from  an  important  journey  to  Rome. 

"What  an  inconvenience!"  murmured  Marion. 

Sonya  came  and  put  her  arm  around  her.  "You 
didn't  tell  me  this,"  she  said  reproachfully.  "Have 
I  been  too  full  of  my  own  fear  and  grief?" 

"How  could  you  help  it?"  answered  Marion, 
shuddering.  "I  am  not  so  much  in  need  of  sym 
pathy  now — for  this — the  mere  legal  forms.  The 
real  end  of  things  was  when  love  flickered  and  went 
out." 

To  Kaminsky,  who  would  have  allowed  neither 
Russian  state  nor  church  to  sanction  or  dissolve  a 
marriage  of  his,  Marion's  view  of  it  was  so  much  a 
platitude  that  he  took  refuge  from  it  in  the  election 
reports. 

"Here's  a  dispatch  from  Zhergan,"  he  said,  and 
read:  "The  judges  of  election  threw  out  the  votes 
of  Dr.  Ferdinand  Grenning,  Social-Democrat,  issu 
ing  a  statement  that  he  had  furnished  secret  informa 
tion  to  a  band  of  outlaws  and  marauders  guilty  of 
armed  resistance  to  the  authority  of  Holy  Russia." 

"But  he  hasn't  been  tried!"  cried  Marion.  "How 
can  those  election  judges  say  that?" 

"The  odd  thing  about  it  is  that  for  once  their 
statement  happens  to  be  true,"  said  Kaminsky. 

"Outlaws  and  marauders  isn't  true." 

"Marauders  isn't.  Baron  Medin,  Conservative, 
was  declared  elected,  he  having  a  majority  of  the 
legal  votes." 

"That's  why  Count  Hohenfels  is  going  to  Rome," 


THE     CHASM 

said  Marion,  adding  mentally  " — and  Callignano." 
She  found  no  pang  of  jealousy  in  the  thought. 

"Grenning  is  legally  a  member  of  the  Duma," 
mused  Kaminsky.  "Unless  we  buy  his  way  out,  it 
will  be  a  member  of  the  imperial  Duma  here  in 
Riga  that  they " 

"It  doesn't  say  he  had  a  majority,"  objected  Son- 
ya. 

"They  would  not  otherwise  have  bothered  to 
throw  out  his  vote." 

"Oh!"  cried  Sonya.  "Just  one  more  day!  If 
Smika  had  held  out  another  day  Ferdinand  would 
have  been  protected  by  uncontested  Duma  member 
ship!" 

"Do  you  think  that  would  have  stopped  them, 
Sonya?  Don't  break  your  heart  about  that!" 

"And  here  we  are  doing  nothing!"  cried  Sonya. 
"We  ought  not  to  rely  on  M.  He  does  nothing 
because  of  his  idea  it's  wrong  to  single  out  one  man 
and  do  anything  for  him!" 

"Only  when  doing  something  for  one  will  hurt 
the  others.  M.  is  doing  what  he  can.  I  didn't  tell 
you  because  it  came  to  nothing,  but  yesterday  he  ap 
proached  the  officer  who  will  be  in  charge  of  the 
station  tonight.  He  let  him  know  there  was  ten 
'thousand  roubles  for  the  escape  of  a  prisoner,  think 
ing  this  particular  officer,  who  has  not  yet  acquired 
a  taste  for  torture,  would  consider  ten  thousand 
worth  more  than  his  job.  The  man  did,  too.  He 
would  have  been  ours  but  for  his  fear  that  M.  was  a 
government  spotter." 

"The  revolutionary  police  spy  feared  as  a  govern 
ment  spotter!"  thought  Marion,  seeing  more  clear- 


THE     CHASM  333 

ly  the  great  net  of  treachery  and  countertreachery 
whose  meshes  run  through  Russia. 

Kaminsky  found  out  that  evening  that  the  ostensi 
ble  Countess  de  Hohenfels  had  not  been  prevented 
from  sailing.  But  two  days  later,  on  Sunday,  they 
learned  from  Sasha  Bratavzinsky,  just  from  Zher- 
gan,  by  how  narrow  a  margin  she  had  got  through. 
Yan  Sarin,  informed  of  it  by  the  Zhergan  day  opera 
tor,  had  sent  Sasha  to  tell  Kaminsky  of  a  cipher  tel 
egram  sent  to  the  Riga  police  that  morning  calling 
on  them  to  arrest  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels.  Riga 
had  replied  that  the  Countess  had  sailed  for  Lon 
don  Thursday.  Sarin  supposed  she  had,  but  for 
Kaminsky's  sake  and  Sonya's,  wanted  them  to  know 
just  how  much  the  police  knew.  Bratavzinsky  was 
astonished  when  he  found  Marion  still  with  them. 

"What  made  them  call  for  the  Countess's  arrest, 
Sasha?"  asked  Kaminsky. 

Sasha  glanced  at  the  Countess.  "The  testimony 
in  the  divorce  case  yesterday  in  Mitau.  I  suppose 
you  know  about  it." 

"No,"  said  Marion,  her  lips  setting  firmly.  "How 
should  we?  Was  that  in  the  papers  too?  What 
was  it?" 

"I  didn't  see  it  in  the  papers,  but  the  divorce  was 
granted — by  that  unspeakable  uncle  of  mine — on  the 
ground  of  improper  relations  with  Dr.  Grenning. 
Sikorsky  and  the  Zhergan  detectives  jumped  at  a 
political  connection." 

A  hard  light  came  into  Marion's  eyes.  "So  he  did 
that  1"  she  exclaimed.  "He  never  told  me  there'd  be 
such  a  charge  as  that.  I  left  it  to  him,  taking  it  for 
granted  he'd  be  decent." 


834  THE    CHASM 

"Give  the  devil  his  due,"  said  Kaminsky  quietly. 
"There  had  to  be  such  a  charge  if  there  was  to  be 
a  decree.  Everybody  understands  that." 

"I  didn't  understand  it !"  blazed  Marion.  "Count 
Feodor  knew  I  didn't.  My  people  won't  understand 
it." 

"Need  they  hear  the  details?" 

"What  possible  evidence  could  he  present?"  she 
demanded  of  Bratavzinsky. 

"Trina  Ronke  testified  to  seeing  you  come  out  of 
the  doctor's  office  one  day  and — she  gave  the  thing 
the  proper  color." 

"The  little  beast!"  exclaimed  Marion.  "Her 
father  in  charge  of  my  case — did  he  let  that  testi 
mony  of  hers  stand?" 

"Did  you  instruct  him  to  contest  the  case?"  asked 
Kaminsky. 

"I  did  not  know  it  would  be  such  a  case !" 

"What's  the  difference,  Marion?"  said  Sonya. 
"The  whole  thing  is  of  that  dreadful  shackled 
world  we're  out  of.  If  chains  are  cut  or  broken, 
what's  the  difference?" 

"Even  in  your  own  Russian  circle,  Countess  Mar 
ion,"  said  Kaminsky,  "since  they  have  to  have  di 
vorce,  and  since  they  will  not  leave  it  to  the  people 
who  best  know  whether  it's  necessary,  this  kind  of 
testimony  is  simply  a  legal  necessity  and  is  so  under 
stood.  Of  course  with  your  double  standard — the 
men  of  your  class  don't  suffer  and  it's  usually  the 
woman  who  gets  the  divorce.  Outside  of  high  so 
ciety  most  thinking  people  no  longer  bother  with  the 
law  at  all.  The  serious  thing  in  this  case  is  the 
political  significance  they  attach  to  your  connection 


THE     CHASM  335 

with  Grenning.  Count  Hohenfels  should  have  wait 
ed  till  you  were  out  of  the  country." 

"He  may  have  heard  she  sailed,"  said  Sonya. 

"And  he  may  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to 
Rome,  he  didn't  care!"  retorted  Marion. 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  her  father, 
though  she  dared  not  mail  it  till  after  she  was  out 
of  Russia.  The  real  facts  would  set  her  straight 
with  him  at  least,  though  she  could  hear  his  inevita 
ble  "I  told  you  so." 

Imbued  as  she  was  with  the  ideas  of  her  American 
training,  she  could  not  accept  the  point  of  view  of 
Sonya  and  Kaminsky.  They  discounted  the  crude 
complication  forced  by  the  antiquated  divorce  law 
into  the  delicate  human  problem.  Her  it  embittered 
beyond  all  possibility  of  future  reconciliation  with 
the  man  who  had  accused  her  falsely  before  the 
world. 


XIII 

SHAKING  snow  from  their  hats,  Sonya  and 
Marion  came  into  their  apartment  after  lunch 
eon;  and  Kaminsky,  stretched  out  on  a  lounge, 
woke  up,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  growled  because 
he  had  been  asleep.    They  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"Snowing?"  he  said,  looking  at  their  coats.  "I've 
had  no  lunch."  He  went  to  the  window.  "Say,  I 
meant  to  tell  you  last  night.  Bratavzinsky  threw  me 
off.  M.  told  me  yesterday.  Might  interest  you." 

"Well,  out  with  it,"  said  Sonya. 

"They've  got  an  American  in  the  station." 

"An  American?" 

"Yes.  They  arrested  him  yesterday — day  before 
yesterday." 

"What  for?"  asked  Marion,  stopping. 

"They  read  some  letter  of  his  saying  he  was  go 
ing  to  write  up  the  Russian  revolution  for  some 
American  socialist  magazine." 

"What!"  gasped  Marion,  dropping  her  coat. 
"What  is  his  name?" 

Kaminsky  had  not  asked. 

"But  I  have  a  friend  coming !  He  wrote  that  very 
thing  in  a  letter  to  me.  Was  this  man's  name  Brad- 
field?  WaltBradfield?" 

"Didn't  hear  his  name." 
336 


THE    CHASM  337 

"Your  gardener!"  exclaimed  Sonya. 

"What  a  thing  to  arrest  a  man  for!"  cried  Mar 
ion.  "They  must  have  read  his  letter  to  me.  How 
long  have  they  had  this  man?  Where  did  he  come 
from?" 

"Saturday's  steamer  from  Hamburg." 

"But  Hamburg  is  where  Bradfield  landed  from 
America  last  week!  Oh,  it's  he!  Kaminsky,  what 
will  they  do  to  him?  What  can  they  do  to  him?" 

"They  probably  expect  to  change  his  mind  as  to 
the  desirability  of  studying  contemporary  Russian 
history  in  Russia." 

"I  am  going  to  the  American  consul,"  said  Mar 
ion. 

"You  are  an  Englishwoman,"  objected  Kaminsky. 

"I  am  Dave  Moulton's  daughter!"  Her  eyes 
flashed  with  pleasure,  picturing  the  energy  she  would 
put  into  that  consul.  She  went  to  the  mirror  and 
rubbed  energetically  at  Miss  Baker's  make-up. 

"Don't  you  realize  you  can't  possibly  appear  in 
your  real  character  in  Riga?"  demanded  Kaminsky, 
thoroughly  awake.  "Do  you  think  the  business 
we're  in  here  is  some  fool  girl's  masquerade?  You'll 
upset  everything.  If  the  police  learn  you're  in  Riga 
— it's  sheer  madness!" 

Marion  stopped  and  thought.  "The  consul  is  not 
going  to  compare  the  time  I  see  him  with  the  time 
I  officially  sailed.  What's  more,  I'll  tell  him  I'm 
incognito  for  personal  reasons.  He  probably  knows 
about  this  wretched  divorce.  He'll  keep  still.  There 
isn't  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  the  discrepancy 
will  ever  come  to  anybody's  attention.  If  it  does, 
somebody's  memory  for  dates  is  poor.  I  can't  afford 


338  THE     CHASM 

to  throw  away  the  influence  of  my  relation  to  one  of 
the  most  important  American  interests  in  Riga.  My 
father  could  have  this  consul  removed  if  he  wanted 
to.  It  won't  take  me  an  hour." 

Kaminsky  argued  in  vain.  She  restored  her  youth 
and  good  looks,  took  a  cab  to  the  consul's  office,  saw 
him,  charmed  him,  convinced  him  of  her  relation 
to  Moulton  of  U.  S.  Plow,  informed  him  that  she 
was  strictly  incognito  in  Riga,  swore  him  to  secrecy 
concerning  her  and  her  interest  in  the  Bradfield  case, 
made  him  call  in  one  of  the  best  lawyers  in  the  city — 
to  be  paid  through  the  office  of  the  Plow  Company — 
and  sent  the  two  of  them  personally  to  the  detective 
station  to  secure  Walt  Bradfield's  immediate  release. 
Having  arranged  it,  she  departed  charging  them  to 
bring  Mr.  Bradfield  back  with  them  to  the  consulate. 
There  would  be  a  man  there  to  take  charge  of  him. 

Ten  minutes  at  the  U.  S.  Plow  Company  office  and 
she  had  the  attorney's  fee  provided  for  and  the  ser 
vices  of  the  Moline  youth,  Mr.  Benson,  at  her  dis 
posal.  She  sent  him  to  the  consulate  to  meet  Brad- 
field  and  take  him  to  the  warehouse.  "I'll  send  a 
man  here,"  she  said  " — a  Jewish  leather  merchant — 
he  doesn't  speak  English.  Turn  Mr.  Bradfield  over 
to  him.  Send  them  out  the  other  side  of  the  build 
ing — to  shake  these  vile  Russian  detectives  that 
watch  everybody." 

She  returned  to  appease  Kaminsky,  assure  him 
there  was  no  harm  done,  and  coax  him  to  go  to  the 
Plow  Company  office.  When  the  time  came  he  went, 
coerced  by  her  threat  to  go  back  herself,  but  told 
her  it  would  have  been  a  thousand  times  better  for 
them  all  if  it  were  the  real,  and  not  a  sham  Countess 


THE     CHASM  339 

de  Hohenfels  who  had  steamed  out  of  the  Gulf  of 
Riga. 

"If  you  could  only  do  that  for  Ferdinand!"  sighed 
Sonya,  as  Kaminsky  went  out. 

Marion  clasped  the  girl's  hands.  "I  wish  I  could  1 
How  I  wish  I  could!  I'd  give  up  anything,  Sonya. 
I'd  give  up — seeing  Walt.  I'd  give  it  up  forever! 
Do  you  grudge  my  seeing  him?  I  don't  want  to  turn 
bitter  at  my  age.  It  seems  to  me  now  he's  my  only 
chance  of  not  hating  the  world.  I  had  forgotten 
how  much  I  ought  to  see  him — till  I  heard  he  was 
here  in  prison.  Sonya,  my  heart  has  been  simply 
frozen  all  these  months!  Frozen,  frozen!"  She 
stood  a  moment  silent  by  the  window.  "Walt's  com 
ing!  Walt's  coming!"  whispered  some  hidden  joy 
within  her  that  would  not,  could  not,  kill  itself  be 
cause  another  woman's  joy  was  in  danger  of  dreadful 
death. 

"I  should  think  so  1"  muttered  Sonya.  "That  man 
of  ice!"  Her  thoughts  snapped  back  to  Grenning. 
It  hurt.  If  it  were  only  Grenning  who  was  to  walk 
out  of  that  grim  building!  It  did  not  seem  fair. 
"They  wouldn't  torture  Bradfield  if  he  did  stay!" 
cried  she,  the  words  wrung  out  of  her. 

Marion  winced.  "I  feel  utterly  selfish,"  she  said, 
and  sat  down  searching  her  conscience.  How  was  it 
she  had  suddenly  laid  hold  of  so  much  power  to  save 
Walt  when  she  had  so  little  for  Grenning?  She  ex 
plained  it  point  by  point  to  herself,  and  proved  it, 
and  yet  felt  wretched.  Her  father's  name  was  magic 
with  the  consul;  theoretically  the  consul  should  have 
taken  up  the  case  of  an  arrested  American  anyway. 
Walt's  case  was  trivial  beside  Grenning's  in  the  eyes 


340  THE     CHASM 

of  the  Russian  authorities.  Though  she  filled  the 
cables  with  appeals  to  her  father,  he  would  not 
touch  the  Grenning  case.  Kaminsky  had  said  lawyers 
for  Grenning  would  be  futile.  "Sonya!"  she  de 
manded,  "is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  Ferdinand 
— beyond  furnishing  money?" 

"I  wish  you  had  waited  a  day  or  two,  and  some 
how — perhaps  they  couldn't.  But  M.  in  there  might 
have  arranged  the  mistake  of  sending  Ferdinand  out 
as  Bradfield.  Afterwards  they'd  have  had  to  let 
Bradfield  go  just  the  same." 

"Unless  they  held  him  for  conspiring  to  release 
Grenning.  But  it's  too  late  now,  Sonya.  Walt  must 
be  out  by  now." 

An  hour  later  Kaminsky  returned  from  the  ware 
house.  Marion  sprang  up  radiant  as  she  heard  him 
coming,  but  he  was  alone. 

"Where's  Bradfield?"  she  said,  turning  pale. 

"The  consul  couldn't  get  action  on  the  case  till  to 
morrow,"  grunted  Kaminsky.  "So  your  Mr.  Benson 
said.  Profitable  time  I've  had  sitting  there." 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  consul?"  demanded 
Marion.  "Do  you  think  he  intends  to  act  tomor 
row?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  your  lawyer  telephoning  the  Plow 
Company  to  make  sure  he'd  get  his  fee.  They  told 
him  you  were  really  Moulton's  daughter.  Your 
man  will  come  out  fast  enough." 

Sonya  looked  eagerly  at  Marion.  "Sonya  wants 
to  know  if  Comrade  M.  could  cause  a  mistake  that 
would  let  Grenning  out  in  place  of  Bradfield." 

Kaminsky  gave  thought  to  it:    "Grenning  doesn't 


THE    CHASM  341 

speak  English.     How  could  he  pass  for  an  Ameri 
can?    The  consul  would  have  to  be  in  the  plan." 

"But  no!"  cried  Sonya.  "Let  M.  not  make  the 
release  till  after  the  consul  is  gone." 

Kaminsky  shook  his  head.    "I'll  ask  M.  tonight," 
he  said.     "He  may  be  willing  to  try  it.     We  have 
other  things,  Sonya.    Davus  may  want  that  ten  thou- 1 
sand." 

Davus,  as  Kaminsky  found  when  he  went  to  M's 
that  night,  did  want  it.  At  first  when  M.  told  his 
chief  of  the  wealthy  noblewoman,  Davus  said,  "Take 
her  money.  You  fail  to  secure  Grenning's  escape. 
What  then  ?  Has  she  influence  enough  to  hurt  you  ?" 

The  detective  said  he  didn't  care  to  risk  it. 

"She  evidently  hasn't  enough  to  get  orders  in  here 
to  release  him." 

"She  may  be  handicapped  by  not  wanting  her  in 
terest  in  the  prisoner  known,"  surmised  M.  "I  won't 
risk  taking  her  money  and  making  her  desperate." 

"I  will,"  said  Davus.    "Who  is  she?" 

M.  replied  that  he  had  not  heard  her  name,  and 
had  difficulty  in  withholding  the  name  of  his  inform 
ant — on  the  ground  that  he  himself  would  get  the 
blame  for  any  double  cross.  The  incident  did  not 
improve  his  standing  with  Davus. 

M.  told  Kaminsky  he  would  make  no  more  at 
tempts  of  that  nature  for  Grenning  or  anyone  else. 
He  was  hurting  the  confidence  of  the  men  of  the  divi 
sion  in  him.  He  also  declined  to  try  to  substitute 
Grenning  for  the  American.  "Their  cells  lie  pretty 
well  for  it,"  he  said,  "but  it's  a  good  deal  too  com 
plicated  to  put  through." 


THE    CHASM 

"Oh,  here!"  exclaimed  Kaminsky,  impatient  with 
himself.  "The  proper  man  to  offer  these  bribes  is 
Grenning  himself.  That  implicates  nobody;  he  has 
nothing  to  lose." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  that  last  week?" 

"Let  Grenning  get  the  turnkey  and  the  warder. 
Their  jobs  are  not  valuable  like  those  of  the  officers. 
They  can  leave  right  after  Grenning.  He  can  tell 
them  he  has  friends  who  can  get  them  out  of  Russia 
if  they  wish." 

"It  looks  good,"  said  Mitiukhin.  "All  I  have  to 
do  is  get  the  money  to  him.  When  can  you  get  it?" 

"I'll  have  it  here  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 

"I'll  go  with  you  and  bring  it  myself.  I  am 
armed." 

M.  had  the  dress  and  manners  of  a  Germanized 
commercial  traveler,  though  his  speech  at  times  was 
a  little  too  scholarly.  Kaminsky  took  him  to  the 
Kaufstrasse  flat,  where  Marion  and  Sonya  were 
waiting  on  edge. 

"Did  Davus  consent?"  asked  Sonya,  as  soon  as  she 
learned  who  M.  was. 

"No." 

"Then  Marion  and  I  have  thought  of  a  way.  Get 
the  money  to  Grenning.  Let  him  buy  the  guards." 

Kaminsky  and  his  companion  exchanged  a  glance, 
laughed,  explained  that  they  had  the  same  idea,  and 
whether  it  was  telepathy  or  coincidence  they  took  it 
as  a  good  omen.  With  low  voices,  gas  turned  down, 
and  curtains  drawn,  they  worked  out  that  night 
everything  they  could  think  of — Grenning's  disguise 
by  shaving  as  soon  as  he  reached  Kaminsky's  room, 


THE     CHASM  343 

his  pseudonym,  his  passport,  their  steamer  tickets — 
each  of  them  had  something  to  do  next  day.  As 
Marion  placed  the  ten  thousand  roubles  for  Gren- 
ning  in  the  hands  of  M.  she  realized  as  never  before 
the  meaning  of  money.  The  sweat  and  weariness 
and  pain  of  glistening  forearms  at  red  forges  in 
Moline — the  endurable  torture,  spread  across  years, 
of  muscles  aching  and  stiffening  under  an  ever  accel 
erated  pace  of  work — this  was  the  price  of  one  man's 
rescue  in  Riga  from  concentrated  hours  of  soul- 
destroying,  body-breaking  anguish ! 

As  M.  took  that  money  they  all  felt  that  Grenning 
would  sail  for  London  Wednesday  noon  with  Sonya 
and  the  Countess. 

Marion  went  to  the  door  with  the  detective.  "I 
want  to  ask  about  Bradfield,"  she  said,  " — the 
American  arrested  Saturday.  Have  you  seen  him?" 

"Yes.    Stubborn  chap." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"Refused  to  take  the  hint  and  leave  Russia." 

"Do  the  police  require  that?  Surely  they  have  no 
legal  right "  She  saw  the  man  of  the  third  sec 
tion  smile  at  her  naivete.  "What  did  the  consul  say 
to  that?"  she  asked. 

"Said  there  was  powerful  pressure  on  him  to  get 
the  man  in.  Seems  funny — an  American  socialist 
writer.  We  hadn't  heard  of  the  Socialist  Republic 
taking  control  in  the  United  States.  The  police  told 
the  consul  the  man  was  free  to  go  as  soon  as  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  leave  Russia." 

"But  do  they  refuse  to  liberate  him  anyway,  un 
conditionally,  whether  he  agrees  to  leave  or  not?" 


344  THE     CHASM 

"No,  not  if  the  consul  insists.  It  would  make  un 
necessary  trouble  to  refuse.  But ."  He  stopped. 

"This  man's  a  friend  of  mine,  Comrade  M.  I  in 
fluenced  the  consul — who  knows  my  father  could 
crush  him.  Tell  me  what  Bradfield  had  better  do." 

"He'd  better  leave.  You  can  have  him  released 
tomorrow  if  you  like,  but  he  can  do  nothing  now  in 
Russia!  He's  spotted.  He'll  never  send  any  arti 
cles  out  of  Russia,  and — he'll  never  take  any  out — 
neither  in  manuscript  nor  in  his  head." 

"Would  they  kill  him?" 

"Someone  will  somewhere,  and  the  police  will  be 
mystified.  They'll  never  be  able  to  discover  who  did 
it.  Or  he  may  be  arrested  some  place  and  get  shot 
'attempting  to  escape.'  There  are  numerous  ways." 

Marion  remembered  the  fate  of  Hertzenstein. 
"Bradfield  must  go  with  us,"  she  said.  "Let  him  tell 
them  he'll  go  on  the  London  steamer  Wednesday. 
Will  you  tell  him  I  ask  him  to  go?  Tell  him  I'm 
going  Wednesday."  She  began  to  color  beneath 
M.'s  penetrating  look. 

"No,"  said  M.  "I'd  rather  not  risk  being  seen 
talking  to  him.  My  English  is  none  too  good.  He 
wouldn't  believe  anything  a  police  officer  told  him 
anyway." 

"But  then  you'll  flick  him  a  note,  won't  you — an 
unsigned  little  note?  Won't  you  please?" 

M.  consented  reluctantly,  and  Marion  flew  to 
write  it  before  he  could  change  his  mind.  "Don't 
say  anything  the  police  shouldn't  see.  Tell  him  to 
swallow  the  confounded  thing  as  soon  as  he  reads  it. 
Tell  him  not  to  recognize  you  at  the  dock." 

To  facilitate  the  swallowing  process  she  borrowed 


THE    CHASM  345 

one  of  Sonya's  needle-pointed  pencils  and  wrote  her 
missive  on  half  a  cigarette  paper. 

"You  can  do  nothing  in  Russia  now  they  have  you 
spotted,"  she  wrote.  "They  read  your  letter  about 
the  superman.  What  do  you  suppose  they  made  of 
it?  Tell  them  you'll  go.  Take  the  K.  and  F. 
steamer  for  London  Wednesday  noon.  Marion 
sailed  for  London  last  week.  Do  not  recognize  any 
one  you  know  at  the  dock.  Wait  till  the  ship  is  at 
sea.  Swallow  this  paper.  I've  chewed  up  the  other 
half  to  see  what  it's  like.  That  makes  this  a  philo- 
pena.  I  mustn't  sign  this,  but  remember  the  Nancy." 

M.  put  the  tiny  scrap  of  paper  in  his  pocketbook, 
made  sure  of  the  packet  of  bank-notes,  and  took  his 
leave. 

Next  morning,  choosing  a  moment  when  none  of 
his  colleagues  or  subordinates  were  there,  he  came 
down  the  corridor  between  the  cells  of  Grenning 
and  Bradfield,  laid  his  hand  carelessly  on  the  hori 
zontal  iron  bar  across  the  bottom  of  the  American's 
window,  let  fall  the  folded  flick  of  paper  almost  con- 
cealable  beneath  a  long  thumbnail,  and  tapping 
swiftly  three  or  four  times  on  the  bar  to  draw  the 
prisoner's  attention  to  the  paper,  stepped  across 
to  the  nearly  opposite  cell  of  Grenning.  Bradfield, 
picking  up  the  note,  intently  sized  up  the  message- 
bearer.  M.  slipped  the  packet  of  bank-notes  to 
Grenning.  "Buy  the  turnkey  and  warder,"  he  said 
in  an  undertone.  "Go  out  about  quarter  past  twelve 
tonight.  Go  straight  down  the  hill.  Meet  Kamin- 
sky  disguised  as  a  leather  merchant.  Got  it?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Grenning. 

The  officer,  having  stopped  only  three  or  four 


THE     CHASM 

seconds,  went  on  through  the  brick-floored  corridor, 
the  eyes  of  prisoners  staring  at  him  sullenly  through 
their  little  windows. 

Gratitude  and  love  swept  Grenning.  The  Coun 
tess  Marion — what  liberality!  Kaminsky  and  per 
haps  great-hearted  Sonya  here  in  Riga  risking  for 
him  the  same  horrible  fate  that  threatened  him! 
What  greater  love  could  man  or  woman  show? 

Bradfield  picked  open  his  minute  missive.  As  M. 
had  said,  he  was  not  disposed  to  trust  anything  that 
came  from  a  Russian  police  officer.  In  two  days  he 
had  come  to  hate  them  as  he  had  never  hated  a 
human  being.  The  tiny  handwriting  on  the  crum 
pled  paper  gave  him  no  clew.  The  query  about  the 
effect  of  the  superman  on  the  police  suggested  Count 
de  Hohenfels  to  him,  and  the  statement:  "Marion 
sailed  for  London  last  week," — who  else  in  Russia 
could  have  written  that?  "But  why  so  friendly,  so 
familiar,  De  Hohenfels?  Why  want  me  to  go  to 
London  if  Marion  is  there?  'I've  chewed  up  the 
other  half  to  see  what  it's  like,'  "  read  he.  "  'That 
makes  this  a  philopena.'  "  That  was  pure  Marion  to 
him — and  "remember  the  Nancy !" — It  was  she !  He 
did  remember  the  Nancy — with  a  thrill.  He  went 
back  and  started  to  read  the  note  through  as  Mar 
ion's.  It  could  be  her  hand,  writing  as  small  as 
this.  This  time  he  accounted  for  "Marion  sailed  for 
London"  as  a  precaution  to  throw  off  possible  police 
readers.  Why  was  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels 
forced  to  such  mysterious  secrecy?  "If  she  really  is 
the  writer  of  this  she  did  not  sail  for  London  last 
week,"  he  thought.  "But  the  note  tells  me  to.  De 
Hohenfels  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  send  me 


THE     CHASM  347 

off  to  London  if  she  was  here.  But  that  philopena ! 
He  hasn't  playfulness  enough  to  invent  that.  She 
might  have  told  him  in  a  general  way  about  our 
launch-ride — but  the  name  Nancy!"  "Recognize  no 
one  at  the  dock."  Who  could  there  be  to  recog 
nize?  Herself.  It  looked  as  though  she  herself 
was  going  on  this  ship  Wednesday.  He  formed  a 
dozen  theories,  none  of  which  he  could  disprove 
or  verify.  He  wanted  to  speak  to  the  police  officer 
who  had  given  him  the  note.  He  tried  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  prisoner  across  the  corridor  to 
whom  the  officer  had  spoken.  Once  he  caught  his 
eye  and  whispered:  "Can  you  speak  English?" 

Grenning  shook  his  head,  laid  his  finger  on  his 
lips,  and  drew  back  from  his  window. 

At  noon  the  turnkey  unlocked  the  door  of  Gren- 
ning's  cell  to  admit  an  attendant  with  a  prison  din 
ner.  The  attendant  came  out.  The  turnkey  closed 
and  locked  the  door,  and  was  going  on. 

"Wait,"  said  Grenning  in  a  low  voice. 

The  man  gave  a  start,  looked  around  and  shook 
his  head. 

"I  have  something  that  means  big  money  to  you." 

"Forbidden."    The  man  went  on. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  reopened  the  door,  and 
the  waiter  took  away  the  bread  and  soup  almost  un 
touched.  The  turnkey  was  slow  about  locking  the 
door.  "Why  don't  you  eat?"  he  asked. 

"I  expect  to  get  something  worth  eating  tonight. 
Look!"  He  showed  a  bulky  roll  of  bank-notes,  held 
them  to  the  light,  and  counted  them  back  one  by  one 
so  the  100-100-100  struck  the  turnkey's  astonished 
eyes. 


THE     CHASM 

"Bozhe  moil  In  the  name  of  Christ!  Where 
did  you  get  that?"  He  looked  around  guiltily,  saw  a 
prisoner  peering  out  of  his  cell  on  the  other  side, 
moved  his  body  to  cut  off  the  man's  view,  and  whis 
pered,  "That's  only  the  American.  He  under 
stands  nothing."  He  looked  longingly  at  the  money. 
"Why  didn't  they  get  that  when  they  searched  you?" 

"Well,  they  didn't.  If  you  report  it  you  get  noth 
ing.  Otherwise  you  can  get  all  this  for  yourself." 

"All  that  ?    How  much  is  that  ?" 

"Two  thousand  roubles." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"See  that  this  door  and  the  corridor  door  are  un 
locked  just  after  midnight." 

"Yes,  and  have  them  find  you  gone  and  the  door 
unlocked  at  two!" 

"You  can  lock  it  again  before  two.  What's  more, 
you  can  be  out  of  Riga  before  two.  How  long 
would  it  take  you  to  save  two  thousand  roubles  on 
this  job?" 

"I  never  would.  I  never  saw  that  much  money 
in  my  life.  It  must  pay  to  be  a  revolutionist." 

"Yes,  it  pays  the  best  of  all.  It  gives  a  man 
friends  such  as  no  other  man  has." 

"When  do  I  get  that?" 

"When  you  unlock  the  door.     Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"Sst!    Yes.     Here's  the  waiter!" 

Grenning  sat  down  on  his  blanket  on  the  floor, 
momentarily  unnerved  in  his  relief  from  the  strain. 
He  had  still  to  get  the  warder  who  would  come  on  at 
four  o'clock  that  afternoon. 

Soon  after  three,  the  American  consul  and  the 


THE     CHASM  349 

Riga  lawyer  hired  for  Walt  drove  up  to  the  station. 
A  few  minutes  later  and  Walt  was  taken  from  his 
cell  to  the  office.  There  being  no  charge  against 
him,  the  consul,  the  lawyer,  and  the  police  came  to 
an  agreement  very  quickly  when  Walt  announced  his 
intention  of  sailing  next  day  for  London.  They  very 
affably  turned  over  to  him  his  passport,  most  of 
his  other  papers,  his  money,  an  order  on  the  custom 
house  for  his  much  searched  trunk,  and  made  out 
his  police  permit  to  leave  Russia. 

Walt  drew  a  deep  breath  as  he  left  the  office  with 
the  consul  and  attorney.  "What  ghastly  tyrants  life 
can  turn  men  into!"  he  moralized.  "I  wonder  how 
those  hell-hounds  would  check  me  up  if  I  didn't  go 
to-morrow?" 

The  consul  looked  alarmed.     "But " 

"Oh,  I'm  going,"  said  Walt,  with  the  mental  res 
ervation:  "Unless  things  turn  out  very  different  than 
I  think." 

"Don't  worry  about  their  checking  you  up,"  said 
the  consul.  "They'd  do  it  eighteen  ways.  This  isn't 
America  by  a  long  shot.  Everybody  has  to  be  ac 
counted  for  everywhere.  The  police  can  let  you  drop 
and  are  sure  to  pick  you  up  again  the  first  place 
you  go." 

Walt  looked  at  the  consul's  cab,  into  which  the 
Riga  lawyer  had  already  climbed. 

"Where  to  now?"  inquired  the  consul. 

"To  a  bathtub — if  I  can  make  some  cabman  un 
derstand." 

The  consul  laughed  and  hailed  a  cab  for  him. 
"Benson  of  the  U.  S.  Plow  Company  was  waiting 


350  THE    CHASM 

for  you  yesterday  at  the  consulate,"  he  said.  "He 
speaks  German  and  Russian.  You'd  better  look  him 
up  and  make  him  steer  you  around."  , 

Walt  assented,  and  with  twenty  hours  of  freedom 
to  spend  in  Russia,  drove  first  to  the  Plow  Company 
office  and  inquired  for  Benson. 

"The  Countess  de  Hohenfels  had  a  man  here 
waiting  for  you  yesterday,"  Benson  told  him.  "She 
forgot  to  leave  us  her  address.  I've  no  idea  where 
to  reach  her." 

Counting  on  her  note  to  insure  Walt's  sailing  on 
her  ship  next  day,  Marion  had  renounced  as  too 
dangerous  the  attempt  to  see  him  sooner. 

Half  an  hour  after  Walt  left  the  prison,  the 
warder  who  would  be  on  duty  between  midnight  and 
two  came  down  Grenning's  corridor  on  his  first 
round.  He  stopped  and  looked  into  each  of  the 
occupied  cells.  Hearing  how  brief  a  time  he  paused 
at  each  door,  Grenning  was  nervous  with  the  realiza 
tion  that  he  would  have  no  time  for  leading  up.  He 
was  close  to  the  grating  when  the  warder  looked  in 
— so  close  the  man  threw  his  hand  to  his  revolver. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  three  thousand  roubles?" 
asked  Grenning  tensely. 

"Shut  up."  The  man  came  close,  and  peered  past 
the  prisoner  into  his  cell. 

"I  have  to  pass  you  tonight  as  I  go  out,"  said 
Grenning.  "It  will  be  worth  three  thousand  roubles 
to  you  if  you  fail  to  see  me." 

"Don't  talk  to  me,  I  tell  you.  It's  against  thfr 
rules." 

"One  breaks  a  rule  or  two  for  three  thousand 


THE     CHASM  351 

roubles.  Pay  attention  to  what  I  told  you  and  you 
get  in  your  hand  thirty  hundred-rouble  notes." 

"Are  you  crazy  just  thinking  about — things? 
Wait  till  they  happen!" 

"I  don't  intend  to  wait,"  said  Grenning,  resisting 
the  paralyzing  image  of  cruelty  and  fear  the  warder 
was  trying  to  force  upon  him.  "I'm  going  out  to 
night.  Look,  man!"  He  pulled  out  his  roll  of  bills. 

"So.  You  have  real  money  in  there?  It  goes  to 
the  office." 

"Where  you  get  not  one  rouble  of  it.  Keep  still 
and  agree  and  it's  yours — right  now." 

In  vain !  The  warder  said  he  had  a  wife  and  two 
children  in  Riga. 

Grenning  told  him  he  could  go  abroad  and  have 
them  follow. 

"No.  If  I  let  a  prisoner  escape  and  went  myself, 
the  woman  and  my  son  and  my  daughter  would  never 
leave  Riga  alive." 

Grenning  promised  him  they  would — within 
twenty-four  hours.  "You're  crazy,  man!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Here's  a  chance  for  you  to  make  more 
for  your  family  than  you  could  save  in  a  lifetime.  By 
doing  what?  Something  bad?  No.  By  saving  a 
human  being  from  this  hell  on  earth." 

"You  wouldn't  be  here  if  God  didn't  want  you 
here.  You  can't  buy  God  off — no  matter  how  much 
you  got." 

"Are  you  sure  God  isn't  trying  to  get  me  out  of 
here  through  you?" 

"God  trying?  No.  I  report  what  I  see  to  the 
office." 


352  THE    CHASM 

Grenning  raised  his  offer  to  eight  thousand  rou 
bles  and  showed  them. 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  eighty  thousand!  You  won't 
have  it  long!"  His  footsteps  died  away  down  the 
corridor.  Then  the  prisoner  heard  low  voices  and 
heavy,  hateful  steps  returning.  The  warder  was 
bringing  the  officer  in  charge  and  brutal  guards  the 
prisoner  knew  would  not  be  gentle. 

"The  Countess's  money  gone!"  was  Grenning's 
first  thought,  and  then  despair  swept  his  soul.  All 
the  thinking,  planning,  co-operating  of  his  comrades, 
their  wary  approach,  their  love  and  sacrifice,  wiped 
out  in  a  moment,  leaving  him  to  suffer  worse  than 
death — through  a  blockhead's  incorruptible  fidelity 
to  the  cause  of  hell ! 


XIV 

COMING  to  their  apartment  after  supper  in 
a  Kaufstrasse  cafe  with  Sonya  and  Marion, 
Kaminsky  found  a  man  waiting  for  him  with 
a  crushing  message  from  M.  that  Grenning  had  lost 
his  ten  thousand  roubles  and  his  best  chance  of 
escape.  They  could  not  bear  to  look  at  Sonya. 

"As  far  as  the  money  is  concerned,"  said  Marion, 
finally,  "if  it  will  do  any  good  we  can  still  spare 
another  ten  thousand." 

Unable  to  endure  an  hour  without  some  definite 
plan,  Sonya  made  Kaminsky  set  out  with  her  for 
M.'s  to  try  to  form  some  new  idea.  Marion  offered 
to  go  with  them,  but  Kaminsky  said  two  were  al 
ready  too  many.  On  the  way  Sonya  stopped  to  buy 
her  vial  of  poison. 

Marion  was  left  alone  to  realize  that  she  and  Son 
ya  and  Grenning  would  not  sail  next  day  and  that 
her  note  to  Walt  would  not  only  send  him  off  on 
that  ship  alone,  but  would  set  him  looking  in  vain  for 
her  in  London.  She  knew  he  had  left  the  station, 
but  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone.  "Why  didn't 
I  have  the  nerve  to  keep  in  touch  with  him  as  I 
wanted  to !"  she  exclaimed.  "I've  missed  my  chance 
to  see  him!"  To  send  a  message  to  him  at  the  dock 
where  the  detectives  would  be  watching  to  see 

353 


354 

whether  he  got  off  would  immediately  direct  their 
suspicion  against  anyone  who  communicated  with 
him. 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  coat,  turned  out  the  gas, 
locked  the  apartment,  went  down  to  an  apothecary's 
where  there  was  a  closed  telephone  booth,  called  up 
the  American  consul  at  his  residence,  and  asked  if 
he  could  tell  where  Mr.  Bradfield  went  that  after 
noon. 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  consul,  "is  that " 

"You  recognize  my  voice,  I  see,"  interrupted 
Marion  with  significant  quickness. 

"Excuse  me.  Yes,  I  do,  of  course.  It's  not  easy 
to  forget." 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  interest.  Could  you 
tell  me  where  the  gentleman  went?  Or  where  he 
intended  to  stop?" 

"I  think  he  was  going  to  some  hotel.  I  told  him 
about  Mr.  Benson  waiting  for  him  yesterday,  and 
when  he  left  me  he  was  going  to  look  up  Benson  at 
the  Plow  Company's  office.  Benson  might  tell  you 
where  he  is  now.  If  you'll  hold  the  wire  a  sec 
ond "  In  a  moment  he  gave  her  Benson's  num 
ber. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  murmured. 

She  got  Mr.  Benson. 

"Mr.  Bradfield?"  he  repeated,  answering  her. 
"Yes.  Who  is  that?" 

"I  prefer  not  to  say  just  now.  You  are  a  poor 
guesser,  Mr.  Benson." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Benson.  "Excuse  me.  Yes, 
Mr.  Bradfield  is  here  with  me.  We  got  to  talking 


THE     CHASM  355 

Moline — and  Russia.  He  is  going  to  stay  with  me 
tonight.  He  leaves  for  London  tomorrow." 

"Yes.    Will  you  call  him  to  the  phone?" 

Mr.  Benson  did. 

"Hello !"  came  Bradfield's  hearty,   open  voice. 

"Walt,"  said  Marion. 

"Yes?"    He  was  all  hushed  attention. 

"Can  you  find  534  Kaufstrasse,  third  floor,  right- 
hand  apartment?" 

"Yes." 

"Come.  Try  not  to  be  followed.  Do  you  under 
stand?" 

"Yes." 

"Goodbye." 

She  went  back  along  the  brightly-lighted  side 
walk,  covered  with  trampled  snow,  crowded  with 
middle-class  shoppers,  to  her  room.  She  changed 
Miss  Baker's  clothes,  removed  Miss  Baker's  years. 
Walt  was  real.  His  one  word — yes — thrice  spoken 
— what  depths  it  stirred! 

Alone  in  the  German-Russian  apartment  with  its 
ugly,  ornate  gas-fixtures,  its  blue  and  white  porcelain 
stove,  its  pious  ikon  in  the  corner,  she  listened  for- 
Walt's  step,  and  heard  instead  the  mournful  sirens 
and  dim  bells  of  steamers,  the  hum  and  chug  and 
rumble  of  tram  and  motor  and  train  far  off,  the 
chink  and  grind  and  murmur  of  hoof  and  wheel  and 
voice,  the  thousand  tremors  and  reverberations  not 
definable  but  blending  in  one  faint  throbbing  roar — 
the  sound  of  Riga.  The  modern  Baltic  city,  meshed 
in  tyrannous  authority — a  daily  woven  web  of  fear 
and  lies  and  violence,  of  insane  cruelties  and  pangs 


356  THE     CHASM 

and  bitter  deaths — was  suddenly  as  strange  to  her 
as  Sidon.  Through  that  city  of  Moloch — of  spies 
who  might  track  him  to  her  and  drag  her  to  worse 
than  death — came  Walt. 

At  his  knock  she  called  softly,  and  heard  his  an 
swer  before  she  unlocked  her  door.  She  drew  him 
in  quickly,  her  hands  on  his  arms — leaned  and 
looked  past  him  down  the  stairs,  not  noting  how  the 
life  in  him  intensified  at  the  touch  of  her  and  the  re 
membered  fragrance  of  her  hair. 

"Shut  in  Elysium!"  The  phrase  flashed,  while  his 
eyes  etched  on  his  glowing  mind  her  coronal  of  red- 
gold  hair,  the  tendrils  of  it  gleaming  on  her  white 
neck,  behind  her  ear,  the  undulation  of  her  noble 
figure  as  she  bent  to  lock  the  world  out.  Her  hands 
trembled  when  she  turned  and  pressed  his.  He  read 
her  eyes  of  welcome — full  of  reviving  memories.  He 
looked  at  her  firm,  rich  lips,  which  had  once  met  his 
— the  day  they  had  eaten  of  the  lotus — and  even  as 
then  his  thought  of  her  love  for  De  Hohenfels  was 
an  invisible  barrier  shutting  her  away.  The  golden 
mist  half-lifted  at  her  tense  question:  "Were  you  fol 
lowed?" 

"Yes.  I  shouldn't  have  noticed  it  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  your  telephone,  but  there  were  two  of  them  sit 
ting  in  a  cab  opposite  Benson's — out  there  in  the 
cold.  I  was  surprised.  Why  am  I  so  important  to 
them?  They  drove  after  me,  and  when  I  got  a  cab, 
kept  right  behind.  When  I  stopped  and  got  out, 
they  did  too.  I  lost  them  doubling  through  a 
crowded  department  store." 

"You  must  go  on  that  ship  tomorrow." 

"Are  you  going  on  it?" 


THE    CHASM  357 

"I  was.     I  can't." 

"When  are  you  going?" 

"A  week — a  month.  It  can't  be  long."  She 
shuddered  with  the  horrible,  absorbing  thought  dom 
inating  those  days. 

"What  queer  thing  has  hold  of  you?"  he  asked. 

"Russia — almost." 

He  had  an  uncanny  feeling  of  terrible,  vague  dan 
ger  threatening  her.  He  looked  at  her  critically. 
"You  don't  use  cocaine,  do  you?" 

"Why  no.  Do  I  seem  so  strange  as  that?  Walt, 
Walt,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you !  I  thought  tonight  I 
had  missed  you.  You  don't  know,  you  don't  know!" 

He  drew  in  his  breath  and  held  it — as  though  her 
words  had  fragrance. 

"Your  mind  is  so  clean — so  free  from — you've 
never  had  your  soul  screwed  out  of  shape — by  lust  of 
blood.  I  need  you  so — your  comradeship — the 
warm  interpretation  of  the  world  you  can  help  me 
make." 

He  felt,  but  read  it  as  illusion  of  his  own  desire, 
that  she  needed  most — his  arms  around  her  and 
long  kisses.  He  could  not  gauge  the  loneliness,  the 
bitterness,  the  fear,  from  which  he  was  refuge.  He 
looked  away  to  keep  himself  from  being  drawn 
depth  below  depth  by  the  look  in  her  eyes.  He  had 
thought  she  would  know  she  must  not  use  her  power 
to  make  love  ache  in  him.  She  turned  slowly  and 
seated  herself  on  the  lounge. 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  go?"  he  demanded. 

"They  will  kill  you  if  you  don't." 

"If  that's  all,"  he  said,  smiling  and  sitting  down 
beside  her,  "I  think  I — will  manage  to  go." 


358  THE     CHASM 

"I  want  you  to  wait  for  me  in  London  or  Paris. 
Will  you?" 

"I  must  find  out  first  whether  you  ought  not  to 
go.  What  are  you  doing  here — writing  unsigned 
notes — wording  them  so  the  hell-hounds  of  police 
will  think  you're  in  London — staying  in  this  place 
where  men  are  killed  for — I  don't  know  what !  Why 
are  you  here  in  this  queer  flat  in  this  murderous 
city?"  He  looked  around  the  room  for  signs  of 
Count  Hohenfels,  and  saw  her  pistol  lying  on  the 
table. 

"It's  a  long  story,"  said  she,  with  a  quick  sigh. 
She  leaned  toward  him  and  lowered  her  voice.  "The 
heart  of  it  is  that  five  weeks  ago  I  gave  a  small 
party  of  revolutionaries  a  warning  that  resulted  in  a 
military  disaster  to  some  troops  of  the  Tsar." 

"You  did!    The  Countess  de  Hohenfels!" 

"Ssh!  Don't  use  that  name!  I  am  Miss  Baker. 
I  am  here  to  get  a  man  out  of  the  prison  where  you 
were — the  man  who  carried  that  warning — one  of 
my  best  friends — threatened  with  torture  unspeak 
able!" 

He  clenched  his  hands.     "For  carrying  the  secret 

you  sent !    Then  If  they  get  you !"    He  saw  her 

lips  shut  tight  and  her  eyes  turn  steel.  He  had  the 
maddening  picture  of  her  cherishable  body  writhing 
beneath  the  hands  of  fiends.  He  looked  at  her  pistol. 
"London  is  no  place  for  me  until  you're  there."  He 
spoke  with  finality. 

She  saw  it  was  useless  now  to  try  to  make  him  go. 
She  had  not  meant  to  let  him  know  so  much.  Ignor 
ant  of  the  country,  the  language — marked  and 
tracked  by  the  police — he  would  be  more  trouble  to 


359 

them  in  their  enterprise  than  he  was  worth.  Yet  her 
unreasonable  soul  rejoiced  that  he  was  there. 

"Do  you  have  to  stay  here?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"What  is  it — friendship  for  this  man?" 

"That  too." 

"Were  you  drawn  into  all  this  accidentally?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you're  not  yourself  a  revolutionist — on 
principle?" 

"I've  hardly  stopped  to  realize  it,  but  I  am — yes ! 
With  my  whole  soul  1  I'd  die — I'd  be  tortured — if 
that  could  destroy  this  Russian  despotism!" 

He  gazed  at  her,  stirred,  disquieted,  convinced. 
There  was  a  terrible  fire  behind  her  eyes.  Too  far 
down  that  road !  But  who,  capable  of  magnifi 
cence,  is  not  capable  of  madness  too?  "I've  called 
myself  a  revolutionist,"  he  said.  "Henceforth  I 
think  I'll  save  the  word — for  the  reality." 

She  laid  her  hand  quickly  on  his,  her  eyes  soften 
ing,  her  tense  soul  unclosing  a  little  in  the  sweetness 
of  being  near  him.  "I  seem  unreal  beside  some  men 
and  women  here,"  she  said.  "Of  me — such  as  I  am 
— you  were  the  beginning.  Walt:  after  you,  as  I 
went  on,  I  kept  on  looking  at  things  from  my  own 
old  point  of  view,  and  Count  Feodor's — but  then, 
just  for  fun  with  myself,  because  I  liked  pretending 
to  be  you,  I'd  shift  the  angle  and  look  at  things  from 
yours.  A  dangerous  game,  sir!  From  yours  I  could 
read  men  and  women  who  from  mine  would  have 
been  meaningless  scrawls.  I  could  account  for  the 
hollowness  and  falseness  of  high  society:  I  could  see 
through  the  self-deceptions  and  hypocrisies  of  ruling 


360  THE     CHASM 

classes — the  dreadful  governments  they  maintain — 
with  a  disgusting  pretense  that  it  is  for  the  people's 
good  that  they  'kee*p  them  down.'  ' 

"You've  traveled  far,"  he  said,  his  half-closed 
eyes  looking  afar — at  his  new  picture  of  her  mind. 

"Had  you  not  touched  my  eyes,  dear  man,"  she 
said,  leaning  close  to  him,  "I  would  have  been  blind 
for  life — like  the  rest — to  our  utter  and  eternal  dis 
regard  for  the  life  and  welfare  and  liberty  of  the 
millions  who  are  and  must  ever  be  of  our  own  blood 
and  nature,  but  who  are  without  the  little  trained-in 
traits  of  our  own  class !  Those  would  have  been  the 
all-important  things  to  me — not  the  big  human 
things !" 

It  moved  him  deeply  to  hear  her — the  most  desir 
able  woman  he  knew  in  mind,  in  will,  in  bodily  love 
liness,  voicing  out  of  her  own  experience  and  heart 
one  phrase  of  his  own  belief.  His  left  hand  was  shut 
tight,  a  result  of  his  determination  not  to  put  it 
around  her  as  she  sat  beside  him.  He  still  thought 
clearly  but  with  an  effort  like  that  of  a  man  refusing 
to  let  the  wine  he  has  drunk  affect  him.  "You'll 
never  get  back  to  the  view  of  the  world  that  prevails 
in  your  own  class,"  he  said.  "You  are  not  of  the 
working  class.  Where  will  you  land?" 

She  had  a  sudden  exalted  sense  of  glorious  an 
swers  to  be  reached  some  day — if  Russia  did  not  end 
all.  "All  I  see  left  for  me,"  she  said,  smiling  her 
way  back  from  that  somber,  intruding  thought,  "is 
the  viewpoint  of — the  social  whole.  Your  own  let 
ter  opened  my  way  to  that.  If  I  can  get  life  that  will 
let  me  grow  out  of  the  bitterness  recent  things  have 


THE     CHASM  361 

forced  into  me — I  may  become,  not  class-conscious 
like  you,  but  socially  conscious." 

"And  what  will  that  lead  to?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  From  that  viewpoint  I  may  have 
to  agree  with  you  that  everything  beautiful  and  true 
and  free  in  life  is  being  blighted  by  our  profit-system 
— without  which  most  of  us  who  are  used  to  it  and 
benefit  by  it  think  the  world  would  stop.  You  class- 
struggle  socialists  seem  to  be  the  only  ones  who  now 
desire  to  end  it.  But  wouldn't  it  be  a  lovely  joke 
on  you  if  the  private  owners  of  the  world's  industry 
should  themselves  see  it  ought  to  be  socialized — and 
do  it  themselves?" 

"Can  you  imagine  your  father  doing  that?" 

"No.     But  can't  you  imagine  me  doing  it?" 

"Yes,  if  you  had  the  power — bless  your  big  heart! 
But  it's  your  class  that  has  the  power,  and  a  ruling 
class,  even  though  doomed,  cannot  surrender.  It  is 
against  the  law  of  the  world.  It  is  there  to  make 
the  rising  class  develop — struggling.  Your  class  is 
an  organism  much  too  tenacious  of  life  to  drink  the 
hemlock  you  think  of  offering  it." 

"I  haven't  thought  it  out,"  she  said.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  the  workers  will  ever  win.  I  would  not  like  to 
see  the  present  wage-workers,  degraded  by  bad 
conditions,  secure  control  of  the  world." 

"Are  those  now  in  control  running  the  world  so 
well — for  human  welfare?" 

"They  are  running  it  for  their  own  welfare — and 
very  badly  from  every  other  point  of  view.  Would 
the  workers  as  they  are  do  better?  If  they  are  to 
gain  power  I  hope  men  like  you  will  first  have  made 


362  THE     CHASM 

them  more  fit  for  it — than  the  present  rulers.  If  I 
can  help  you  do  that,  I  will.  I  do  feel  in  you,  Walt- — 
oh,  with  love  I  feel  it — a  great  hope  of  a  clean, 
sweet  world!" 

A  surge  of  feeling  made  thought  difficult  for 
him.  His  arms  ached  for  her.  He  started  to  speak 
— cleared  his  throat — let  his  criticism  go. 

"Walt,"  she  said,  pouring  oil  on  flame. 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"You  know  I  am."     He  could  hardly  speak. 

"But  why  don't  you  tell  me  you  are  ?  Why  do  you 
pretend  not  to  be?" 

"Because  I'm — a  thousand  times  too  glad!" 

"You  can't  be!  Oh,  I  need  a  monstrous  gladness 
for  me  in  someone — someone !" 

"Do  you  know  what  will  happen  if  you — how 
does  Count  Hohenfels  feel  about  your  revolutionary 
activity?" 

"What  he  feels  about  all  things  and  persons  but 
himself — exalted  scorn!" 

"So  on  account  of  him  you're  lonely  and  un 
happy?  Where  is  he?" 

She  drew  her  forearms  back  against  her  breast, 
lowering  her  head  so  her  knuckles  hurt  her  cheeks. 
"I  have  left  him." 

A  diamond  turning  on  her  clenched  third  finger 
revealed  its  deepest  unsuspected  gleam.  To  the  im 
passioned  man  beside  her,  life  in  that  instant 
changed.  In  his  soul  a  trumpet  blew. 

"He  has  a  divorce — on  a  miserable  false  charge 
of  improper  conduct  with  Dr.  Grenning — who  is 
here  in  prison,  facing  death  and  worse." 


THE    CHASM  363 

He  saw  her  indignation  against  De  Hohenfels 
blaze  out  even  through  her  anxiety  for  Grenning. 
He  could  not  instantly  adjust  his  own  ideas,  nor  fol 
low  hers.  She  looked  at  him.  He  felt  her  feel 
through  his  shifting  thoughts  his  underlying  joy.  "It 
may  be  a  sorrow  to  you,"  he  said,  "but  don't  ask  me 
to  sympathize.  To  me  it  means  that  you,  Marion, 
who  loved  me  once  on  the  other  side  of  the  world — 
are  free !  You  are  a  woman  unmated !" 

Her  attention  focused  on  him  with  that  intensity 
in  her  which  was  new  to  him.  He  did  not  want  her 
to  think  that  merely  because  she  had  left  De  Hohen 
fels  he  thought  her  his.  For  all  he  really  knew  she 
did  love  Grenning — or  loved  no  one.  So  reasoning 
he  tried  to  keep  himself  from  her.  He  could  not. 
His  soul  knew  she  was  crushing  her  throbbing  fin 
gers  against  her  cheeks,  her  yearning  breasts  against 
her  arms  in  lieu  of — to  keep  herself  from — him! 
He  leaned  and  gathered  her  against  him,  feeling  her 
body  shake  with  sobs  as  she  opened  her  arms  to  fold 
him  in  beauty  and  wonder.  Through  her  nerves, 
made  tense  by  days  and  weeks  of  mental  pain  and 
dread,  saving  her  from  threatening  hysteria,  flowed 
the  deep  magic  of  love-liesse. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  with  glittering 
eyes  at  him. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  love,"  she  said,  as  their  lips 
neared.  "It  is  strong  as  death." 


XV 

THE  evening  roar  of  Riga  had  died  away  to 
discontinuous  nocturnal  sounds  when  a  knock 
at  the  apartment  door  startled  Marion  from 
her  hour's  oblivion  to  the  cocaine-like  Russian  fear. 

The  sudden  pallor  of  her  face  as  she  rose  from  her 
lover's  side  could  not  conceal  the  stirred  and  vivid 
beauty  of  kissed  lips  and  shining  eyes.  A  throbbing 
languor  underlay  her  quick  movements  as  she  twisted 
into  place  a  fallen  strand  of  glinting  hair  and  closed 
the  fragrant  bosom  of  her  gown.  Echoes  of  exqui 
site  sensation,  sweet  throes  inflicted  by  caressing  lips 
were  vibrating  in  her  as  she  went  to  answer  the  un 
welcome  summons  of  the  outside  world. 

She  opened  the  door. 

There,  dumbly  waiting,  stood  Sonya — with  stony 
eyes.  From  them  the  forgotten  thought  of  Gren- 
ning  leaped  and  stabbed  the  love-intoxicated  woman. 
Sonya  did  not  speak.  In  her  nostrils  Marion  heard 
the  quivering  breath  indrawn  by  shuddering  lungs. 
Kaminsky  drew  her  by  the  arm.  As  they  passed  in, 
Marion  caught  his  eye,  and  flashed  him  her  dreadful 
question. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "They  examined  Grenning  this 
evening." 

364 


THE     CHASM  365 

Her  gesture  begged  him  not  to  drive  it  into  Sonya's 
mind  by  speech. 

He  did  not  think  much  of  the  policy.  "I  don't 
think  she  hears  anyway,"  he  said.  "We  need  a  doc 
tor." 

Sonya  turned  as  though  to  speak,  looked  at  Mar 
ion,  shook  her  head. 

Encircling  her  with  arms  of  infinite  compassion, 
Marion  went  with  her  to  her  room,  bending  to  kiss 
her,  pressing  her  to  her  side,  talking  to  her  in  the 
voice  new  love  had  taught  her,  trying  to  woo  back  to 
life  her  friend's  will  to  live.  She  could  not  make  the 
life-creating  sweetness  throbbing  in  her  veins  reach 
that  shut  heart  as  Sonya's  dumb  agony  reached  hers. 
In  glimpses  that  seemed  to  open  and  flame  upon  her 
from  the  inferno  of  Sonya's  soul  she  saw  the  prison 
room,  the  intent  look  of  torturers  at  work,,  the 
strapped-down  victim,  the  distorted  face  of — Gren- 
ning!  Stifling  a  sudden  desire  to  scream,  she  felt 
back  for  Count  Feodor's  prophylactics  against  the 
infection  of  pity — its  morbidity  and  futility — the 
ideal  of  the  hard,  heroic  heart — beatitude  unscorched 
by  the  flame  of  another's  burning.  Those  cobwebs 
might  shield  the  intellect  that  spun  them,  but  not — 
a  woman's  midriff ! 

She  came  out  to  Walt  and  Kaminsky.  The  latter 
sat  with  his  shoulders  hunched  up  near  the  stove,  his 
mouth  occasionally  twisting.  He  straightened  up 
when  he  saw  her  and  became  matter  of  fact.  "Bet 
ter  not  leave  that  there,"  he  said,  nodding  toward 
her  pistol  on  the  table. 

She  picked  it  up  mechanically,  considering  where 


366  THE     CHASM 

to  keep  it  out  of  Sonya's  way.  "Did  she  hear — 
everything?"  she  asked. 

"She  got  everything  out  of  M. — made  him  tell  her 
everything.  She  loathes  him.  He  had  to  help." 

-Help 1" 

"He  had  to.  Davus  suspected  him.  M.  had  to 
try  to  force  Grenning  to  tell  who  gave  him  that 
ten  thousand — sweating  blood  for  fear  he  would 
tell." 

"And  he  didn't?" 

"No.  Nor  about  us.  Nor  his  own  connection 
with  Mitrevitz.  They  got  nothing  out  of  him.  The 
only  evidence  they  have  against  him  is  Smika's — and 
for  all  the  police  know  that  was  mere  insanity." 

"Is  there  a  hope  they  will  release  him  after  all?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Sonya  hoped  that  too.  When 
she  realized — she  made  M.  go  back  to  the  prison  to 
give  Grenning  that  little  bottle.  M.  came  back  and 
said  the  doctor  wouldn't  take  it.  In  spite  of  Smika, 
Grenning  thinks  his  nervous  system  is  strong  enough 
to  pull  him  through  alive  and  sane.  He  hopes  we 
will  find  some  way  to  get  him  out  before  they  re- 
examine  him." 

"Oh,  we  must,  we  must!  But  why — if  they  think 
he  had  nothing  to  do  with  Mitrevitz " 

"They  daren't  let  people  see  the  marks.  They 
put  out  cigars  against  his  flesh.  They  could  hold 
him  till  the  holes  are  healed,  but — his  hands.  They 
are  ruined.  The  broken  bones  of  his  fingers  will 
reknit  unset  and  his  nails  are  gone." 

A  tigress  sound  broke  from  the  woman,  and  her 
hand  clenched  convulsively  on  the  pistol.  Walt 
sprang  up — not  understanding — ready  to  fly  at 


THE     CHASM  367 

Kaminsky.  "Are  you  going  to  kill  them?"  de 
manded  Marion. 

Kaminsky's  gesture  indicated  there  was  nothing  to 
gain  by  it. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Walt.  He  held  out  his  hand, 
wanting  to  take  the  weapon  himself.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  that?" 

"Nothing — oh,  just  nothing !  They  tore  out  Gren- 
ning's  nails, — but  we  submit!  They  broke  his  sur 
geon's  fingers — what  did  they  do  with  those  nails, 
Kaminsky?  Just  throw  them  on  the  floor?  They 
must  look  pretty.  Wouldn't  you  like  one  as  a  souve 
nir  of  Grenning?  I  never  saw  the  root  of  a  man's 
nail !"  She  looked  at  her  own  pink  nail. 

"Pull  your  mind  straight  off  of  that!"  commanded 
Nachman  Kaminsky  sternly.  "Go  baresark  and  kill 
Gregus  and  what  have  you  done?  Your  life's  worth 
more  than  that!" 

"Think  of  it,  Walt!"  cried  she,  again  speaking 
English.  "That  girl,  Sonya,  loves  him,  and  can  do 
nothing!"  She  looked  at  Walt's  hand,  not  yet  soft 
and  white  like  a  gentleman's.  She  looked  at  his 
nails.  She  shuddered  and  her  face  was  screwed  out 
of  shape  by  imagined  pain.  Suddenly  she  reached 
and  drew  Walt's  fingers  passionately  against  her 
breast  and  kissed  them,  and  then  for  an  instant,  un 
expectedly,  her  life  flamed  toward  him.  There  was 
a  sudden  all-meaning  look  between  them  on  their 
narrow  ledge  of  joy  above  the  world's  swimming 
pain.  Her  voice  dropped.  "Even  now  I  am  drunk 
with  your  love,"  she  said.  "Even  this  ghastly 

news !  If  I  could  only  give  poor  Sonya  the 

least  bit  of  this  unquenchable  sweetness !  Don't  leave 


368  THE    CHASM 

here  tonight.  They  would  pick  you  up  again  at  Ben 
son's.  I'll  be  with  Sonya.  You  can  have  my  room. 
Tomorrow  we  can  make  a  place  for  you." 

"Elysium  in  the  midst  of  hell!"  he  muttered.  "I 
don't  like  the  way  you  handle  that  gun.  If  shoot 
ing  has  to  be  done,  give  me  the  job." 

She  turned  to  Kaminsky.  "What  is  to  be  our 
program?"  she  asked.  To  his  relief  she  spoke  now 
like  a  sane  person. 

"Get  Sonya  to  go  with  you  tomorrow  as  planned, 
minus  Grenning." 

"Heaven  and  earth  couldn't  make  her!  She'd  die 
ten  deaths  first!" 

"She'll  lose  her  mind." 

"More  likely  if  she  went." 

"Be  careful  yourself,"  he  warned.  "Terrible 
forces  are  ready  to  break  loose  from  you.  Don't 
make  pictures — as  you  were  doing.  Don't  let  them 
make  themselves.  Don't  let  your  thoughts  concentrate 
on  finger-nails.  Keep  your  rudder;  use  judgment  how 
you  handle  your  mind.  If  the  whole  pack  of  you 
would  get  out  of  here  leaving  what  money  you  can, 
I  could  do  just  as  much — with  one  quarter  the  risk." 

"You're  right.  But  she  won't  go!  How  can  you 
ask  it?  I  wouldn't  in  her  place." 

"Being  in  your  own,  you'd  better  go.  Bradfield 
can  leave  tomorrow  as  he  agreed,  and  you  with  him 
— that  is,  on  the  same  ship.  He  will  have  trouble 
going  later." 

The  unquenchable  sweetness  rose  through  her 
lungs.  To  escape  from  the  horror  of  Russia  into 
love — just  love!  "What  would  Sonya  do?"  she 
asked. 


THE     CHASM  369 

"I'll  take  care  of  her." 

"If  ever  a  woman  needed  another,  she  needs 
me.  If  I  let  her  make  her  fight  for  sanity  alone — 
no,  thank  you !  Walt  won't  leave  me  either.  There's 
no  use  preaching  sense  to  any  of  us,  Kaminsky.  We 
must  keep  Bradfield  here.  The  police  have  lost  him. 
Get  him  some  papers  for  the  benefit  of  the  domicili 
ary  gentleman.  Let  him  be  my  brother  come  for  me 
from  England — or  my  betrothed."  The  tones  her 
voice  found  for  the  word  surprised  her.  She  looked 
at  Walt,  and  across  her  flashed  the  vision  of  a  sym 
pathetic  marriage — years  together — in  Western 
Europe,  in  America — he  and  she  touched  with  the 
same  flame — working  together  for  the  same  great 
social  ends — bringing  their  vision  of  a  fairer  society 
to  bear  upon  the  one  in  which  they  lived — carving 
their  dream  in  the  resisting  block  of  hard  reality — 
helping  to  lead  the  world  into  the  coming  time.  Then 
the  shadow  of  Russia  fell  on  her — the  difficulties  of 
frontier  and  port — the  ghastly  tragedy  of  capture — 
Sonya  alone  there  in  her  room.  "I  must  get  back  to 
her,"  she  said.  "I'll  show  you  where  you  are  to 
sleep.  Start  something  for  Grenning,  Nachman — 
if  only  for  effect  on  her." 

Kaminsky  smiled  after  her  and  Walt.  "Lucky  for 
you  you  have  got  something  to  take  your  mind  off — 
Grenning's  nails  on  the  floor!"  he  thought.  His 
mouth  twisted  again.  Was  it  out  of  his  own  experi 
ence  he  knew  one  must  not  think  of  nails?  "Gren 
ning  should  have  drunk  that  bottle,"  he  muttered. 

Four  days  later,  Kaminsky  was  hopeful  again.  The 
day  after  his  examination,  Grenning,  in  ceaseless 
pain,  had  been  transferred  to  the  Central  Prison.  In 


370  THE    CHASM 

a  vodka-shop  Kaminsky  gained  the  confidence  of  one 
of  the  prison  guards,  excited  his  cupidity,  got  him  to 
draw  in  a  pal,  and  the  two  agreed  to  get  Grenning 
out.  The  guards  intended  to  take  a  fishing  boat  and 
sail  to  Sweden.  Sunday  night  was  set  for  the  escape, 
and  arrangements  made  for  leaving  Russia  Monday; 
but  Sunday  morning  Grenning  was  unexpectedly  sent 
back  to  the  detective  station  for  reexamination. 

After  that  it  was  hopeless.  He  could  not  have 
walked  out  had  all  doors  stood  open  and  unguarded. 
For  in  the  second  examination,  determined  to  get 
something  out  of  him  before  the  field  court-martial, 
they  strapped  Grenning  to  a  bench,  placed  a  plank 
across  his  back,  jumped  on  the  ends  of  the  plank  and 
broke  his  spine. 

He  made  no  confession.  He  told  them  nothing. 
He  did  not  die.  Day  after  day  they  let  him  lie — the 
agonized  wreck  of  a  man — still  sane. 

At  every  opportunity  Kaminsky  talked  to  Sonya  of 
the  revolutionary  plans  and  activities  going  on  in 
Riga,  told  her  how  the  peasant  deputies  of  the  first 
Duma  had  come  to  the  second  Social  Revolutionists, 
described  how  the  waves  spreading  from  the  Russian 
revolution  were  stirring  Turkey — Persia — India — 
all  of  them  testing  the  strength  of  their  chains.  In 
every  way  he  sought  to  relight  the  fire  of  what  had 
once  seemed  Sonya's  strongest  passion — Russian 
freedom. 

It  all  seemed  to  mean  nothing  to  her. 

Marion  got  her  occupied  preparing  breakfast  and 
lunches,  but  could  not  make  her  hold  her  mind  to 
the  game  of  teaching  Walt  Russian.  It  was  a  fear 
ful  pain  to  Sonya  to  do  anything  that  kept  her  from 


THE    CHASM  871 

her  own  thoughts.  Her  "pictures''  drew  her  to  look 
at  them  always.  They  were  jealous  of  any  inter 
ruption.  Even  the  danger  of  detection  in  a  second 
domiciliary  visit  of  the  police  drew  her  attention 
only  while  the  officers  were  present.  Kaminsky  being 
away  Marion  herself  had  to  deal  with  them  in  ex 
aggeratedly  meager  Russian.  Walt  was  superficial 
ly  disguised  by  spectacles  and  changed  dress,  and  the 
visitors  were  not  of  that  section  of  the  police  who 
could  have  identified  him.  Fortunately  Kaminsky 
had  supplied  him  with  papers  that  satisfied  them. 

It  was  eight  days  after  the  reexamination  of  Gren- 
ning,  on  a  dark  mid-October  afternoon,  the  east  wind 
whirling  snow-flakes  down  the  streets  of  Riga,  when 
Kaminsky  brought  word  to  the  Kaufstrasse  that  the 
field  court-martial  was  sitting.  Russian  officers  and 
gentlemen — men  with  the  old  culture  in  a  new  soul 
— were  passing  upon  the  evidence  submitted  to  them 
by  the  detective  division,  deciding  the  fate  of  the  sev 
enteen  revolutionists  then  in  the  toils  in  Riga. 

It  was  reported  that  night  that  two  were  con 
demned  to  death.  Grenning  and  Smika?  Their 
friends  did  not  voice  the  hope  that  they  were  the 
lucky  ones.  Sonya,  Marion,  and  Walt  rose  before 
daylight  next  morning,  went  to  the  reeking  wharf 
of  the  fishing  boats,  and  gazing  with  a  glass  across 
the  sands  between  them  and  the  Central  Prison,  they 
saw  both  prisoners  march  out  and  stand  before  the 
firing  squads.  Neither  of  these  new  corpses  could 
be  Grenning's. 

Soon  after  breakfast  they  learned  that  Grenning 
and  Smika, — a  maniac  and  a  man  with  broken 
spine  who  would  not  die — had  been  sentenced  to 


372  THE     CHASM 

fifteen  years'  hard  labor  in  the  Siberian  mines.  Thir 
teen  other  prisoners  left  at  eight  o'clock  for  Siberia, 
but  the  doctor  and  the  forester  were  not  among 
them.  They  were  not  in  the  detective  station  or  the 
Central  Prison,  and  in  neither  of  those  places  was 
there  any  record  of  where  they  had  been  sent.  They 
must  have  been  removed  in  the  night.  M.  was  not 
in  the  secret. 

Kaminsky  mingled  with  the  Jews  of  his  father's 
synp.gogue  after  the  morning  service.  Among  them 
were  secret  revolutionists,  merchants  who  had  all 
kinds  of  codes  and  modes  of  communication  with 
others  of  their  race  throughout  the  Baltic  provinces, 
Kovno,  Grodno,  and  the  governments  of  the  Pale. 
They  had  no  information,  but  by  nine  o'clock  that 
morning  the  question  "Where  is  Grenning?"  began 
to  spread  in  curious  ways  through  western  Russia. 

After  a  midday  meal  with  a  Jewish  friend,  Ka 
minsky,  returning  to  the  Kaufstrasse  flat,  found  no 
one  there  to  let  him  in.  "All  at  lunch  together  again 
and  taken  the  key!"  he  reflected.  He  looked  at  his 
cheap  watch,  sat  down  on  the  top  step,  and  pulled 
out  a  newspaper.  Presently  he  heard  someone  run 
ning  up  the  lower  flights  of  stairs.  It  was  Sonya. 
She  came  up  breathless,  frightened  out  of  the  intro 
spective  look  of  melancholia.  "We've  been  recog 
nized!"  she  exclaimed. 

Kaminsky  clenched  his  fingers,  fighting  for  con 
trol  of  the  panic  that  started  in  him.  "Where  are 
the  others?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  hoped  they'd  be  here.  We 
separated.  It  was  in  the  Alexander  II  cafe.  Trina 
Ronke  came  in  with  Captain  Sikorsky  and  took  the 


THE     CHASM  373 

next  table.  We  kept  our  faces  away  and  did  not  let 
them  hear  our  voices,  but  we  had  to  pay  the  waiter. 
Ronke  looked  harder  and  harder  and  finally  she  was 
sure.  We  got  out  as  fast  as  we  could,  but  she  had 
Sikorsky  convinced  and  he  was  up  looking  for  an 
officer.  In  the  street  we  went  opposite  ways.  What 
if  they've  got  Marion!" 

"If  they  have,  Trina  Ronke  will  die." 

"As  i'f  her  miserable  life  could  pay!" 

"Is  her  money  with  her — or  here?" 

"Here— I  think." 

"Has  she  the  key?" 

"Bradfield  has  it." 

"Then  we'll  have  to  get  a  locksmith — or  break 
down  the  door.  If  she  has  the  money  with  her  we 
will  have  none  for  getting  her  out." 

"Oh,  they  can't  have  been  caught!"  exclaimed 
Sonya.  "They  must  have  mixed  up  in  some  crowd 
to  avoid  being  followed." 

"I'm  going  down  to  look,"  said  Kaminsky.  "Was 
it " 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  Sonya.  There  were  foot 
steps  below — two  persons  coming  up  fast.  It  was 
Walt  and  Marion.  He  had  hold  of  her  arm  and 
was  talking  low,  emphatic  English.  Sonya  sat  down 
on  the  step  with  a  sigh  of  gratitude.  That  strain  of 
danger  and  relaxation  of  relief  were  perhaps  her 
salvation. 

They  saw  Marion's  white  face,  compressed  lips, 
and  eyes  turned  up  to  them,  and  heard  her  relieved 
exclamation,  "Sonya's  here !" 

"You've  heard,"  she  said  to  Kaminsky,  as  Walt 
unlocked  the  door. 


374  THE     CHASM 

"Yes.     When  are  you  going?" 

"The  first  ship.  Sonya,  you  are  coming,  too." 
She  followed  Walt  in. 

"No,"  said  Sonya. 

Marion  sat  down  by  the  marble-topped  table  and 
scanned  the  sailing  lists.  "The  F.  and  K.  steamer 
Kursk  for  London.  Three  o'clock."  She  looked  at 
her  watch.  "An  hour  and  three-quarters.  Sonya, 
there's  no  time  at  all  to  lose.  Get  ready." 

Sonya  shook  her  head.  "No,  dear  Marion,"  she 
said.  It  was  her  old,  reasonable,  loving  voice. 

"She  recognized  you  too!"  exclaimed  Marion. 
"They'll  know  you're  not  in  Odessa.  They  know 
how  close  we've  been.  She  knows  you  loved — Son 
ya,  won't  you  come  ?  I  want  you  !" 

"We've  done  all  we  can  for  Grenning,"  urged  Ka- 
minsky.  "It  was  our  best,  but  it  wasn't  enough.  We 
may  never  hear  definitely  what  happened.  It  is 
certain  he  is  dead  or  will  soon  die — beyond  our 
knowledge  or  power  to  help  him." 

Sonya  bowed  her  head.  "I  know  that,"  she  said. 
"He  should  have  died  as  he  was  when  he  came  here. 
But  Marion — my  place  is  Russia.  I'd  love  to  go 
with  you,  but  I'd  have  nothing  to  do — but  think. 
Here  there  are  things  to  be  done  that  can't  very 
well  be  done  by  people  who  care  to  live.  I  can  do 
these  things." 

Marion  looked  away  suddenly. 

"The  revolution  seems  all  tragically  futile  now," 
said  Sonya,  "but  no  matter  who  is  killed,  it  can  never 
end — till  it  wins." 

The  eyes  of  Sonya  and  Marion  met,  and  they 


THE    CHASM 

knew  for  the  first  time,  in  the  moment  of  farewell, 
the  full  depth  of  the  love  between  them. 

Marion  came  and  embraced  her.  "God  bless 
you,"  she  said.  "Don't  throw  your  life  away!  Will 
you  get  away  from  Riga  to-day — in  a  good  new  dis 
guise?" 

"Yes.    Perhaps  to  Libau." 

"You  make  me  see  my  place  is  America — not 
Rome — not  Paris.  On  the  other  side  of  the  world  I'll 
be  on  your  side  of  the  world-fight,  Sonya  1" 

"Look  here!"  said  Kaminsky.  "This  ship  doesn't 
leave  soon  enough.  It  will  be  two  hours  after 
Sikorsky  saw  you.  The  police  will  have  telephoned 
the  dock.  They'll  have  a  description  of  you  in  that 
disguise." 

Marion  turned — saved  from  breaking  down.  "I'd 
better  leave  off  the  wig  and  look  young,"  she  said. 

"I'm  afraid  no  disguise  is  good  enough  now. 
There  are  too  few  English-speaking  people  going 
out.  You  have  some  accent.  Half  a  dozen  of  them 
can  identify  Bradfield." 

"Walt,"  said  Marion,  "Kaminsky  says  we  can't 
get  through  at  the  dock.  They  will  have  telephoned 
about  me,  and  there  are  half  a  dozen  men  who  can 
identify  you." 

"In  fact,  all  of  them,"  said  Bradfield.  "They 
took  my  measurements.  How  far  is  it  to  the  Swed 
ish  coast?" 

She  asked  Kaminsky. 

"Less  than  two  days'  sail  with  this  wind.  Tell 
Bradfield  he's  right.  A  fishing  boat's  the  thing.  But 
tell  him  the  Swedish  Socialists  have  to  fight  to  keep 


376  THE     CHASM 

our  refugees  from  being  sent  back  by  their  govern 
ment.  Best  keep  in  the  steamer  route  and  get  an 
English  ship  to  pick  you  up." 

Marion  looked  at  the  sailing  lists.  "There  seems 
to  be  no  English  ship  till — day  after  tomorrow." 

"Better  go  now,"  said  Kaminsky.  "It  will  be 
harder  tomorrow  when  every  detective  knows  of 
you.  Try  the  Kursk.  It's  her  last  trip.  She  won't  be 
back  till  spring.  If  we  go  at  once  we  should  get 
a  boat  and  get  you  off  an  hour  ahead  of  her.  I'll 
go  down  with  you  and  help  get  you  a  crew.  You 
might  as  well  be  in  the  hands  of  comrades." 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  were  ready.  Mar 
ion  made  Sonya  say  she  would  make  a  good  new 
disguise  and  leave  Riga  at  once.  There  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  It  was  a  messenger  from  M.  at  the 
detective  station  warning  them  that  the  police  had  in 
formation  that  the  Countess  de  Hohenfels,  wanted 
for  complicity  in  the  Zhergan  disaster,  was  disguised 
in  Riga.  They  were  looking  for  her.  She  turned 
pale,  and  translated  for  Bradfield.  "Let's  get  to 
that  wharf!"  he  said.  Marion  turned  to  Sonya  for 
a  last  kiss.  Then  she  went  down  with  Bradfield  and 
Kaminsky  into  the  wind-swept,  daylight  streets  of 
Riga.  Armed  all  three,  knowing  death  was  better 
than  capture,  they  passed  at  every  crowded  crossing 
one  of  the  gorodovoi  with  his  visored  cap  and  boots 
and  saber.  Kaminsky  went  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
ahead. 

They  passed  Benson  on  the  sidewalk.  He  stopped 
in  astonishment,  a  danger  to  them,  but  Marion  gave 
no  sign  of  recognition  and  kept  on.  Ever  since  Brad- 
field  had  left  his  trunk  there,  a  representative  of  the 


THE     CHASM  377 

third  section  had  been  living  in  Benson's  pension. 

A  Jewish  pony-buyer  wanted  to  stop  and  talk  with 
Kaminsky,  who  would  not  have  it.  The  man  walked 
along  with  him.  They  saw  Kaminsky  give  a  nod  of 
comprehension,  and  then  the  man  turned  back  the 
way  he  had  been  going. 

Down  a  squalid  street  they  saw  the  black  hulls  of 
vessels,  their  spars  and  yards  white  with  sticky  snow. 
The  shores  of  the  Dwina  were  lined  with  thin,  blue 
ice.  Passing  through  a  line  of  carts  and  wagons, 
they  reached  the  wharf.  It  was  built  along  the 
length  of  its  center  with  low  forecastle-like  cabins, 
and  was  covered  with  trampled  snow  and  scales,  clut 
tered  with  frozen  coils  of  line,  piled  high  with  low, 
heavy  barrels.  There  were  only  a  few  boats  in. 
Kaminsky  made  some  inquiries  and  got  the  Ameri 
cans  into  one  of  the  shanty  markets  smelling  of  fish 
and  tar,  of  vodka  and  bad  tobacco.  They  quickly 
struck  a  bargain  with  a  skipper  and  his  one-man 
crew.  The  cabin  of  their  boat  was  a  dire-looking 
place  to  spend  a  day  in,  but  the  sight  of  the  walls 
of  the  Central  Prison  across  the  snow-covered  sands 
made  it  alluring.  A  hundred  rouble  note  persuaded 
a  wharf  detective  who  had  not  yet  heard  of  the 
Countess  de  Hohenfels  that  this  man  and  woman 
could  want  a  fishing-boat  for  none  but  laudable  and 
lawful  ends.  Walt  helped  Marion  down  from  the 
icy  wharf  into  the  boat.  Kaminsky  went  with  them 
into  the  little  cabin  while  the  fishermen  made  ready 
to  cast  off. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Kaminsky. 
"Did  you  see  that  man  that  walked  with  me?  He 
was  coming  from  the  freight-yard.  Among  the  mar- 


378  THE    CHASM 

ket  reports  the  Jews  send  each  other  chalked  on  the 
sides  of  freight-cars,  that  man  saw  a  message  in 
Hebrew  on  a  car  just  in  from  Kokenhausen.  It 
said,  'Grenning  and  Smika  were  brought  here  alive 
in  the  night.  This  morning  they  were  dead.  They 
were  reported  shot  attempting  to  escape.' ' 

The  slap  and  swish  of  little  waves  against  the 
sides  of  the  boat — the  creak  and  strain  of  pulleys 
a 3  the  sail  went  up — were  for  a  moment  the  only 
sounds. 

"Thank  God!"  breathed  Marion.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  Walt's.  "Grenning  is  dead.  Shot  attempt 
ing  to  escape — a  man  with !  Walt,  did  you 

know  Sonya  thought  he  loved  me?  You  know  how 
she  loved  him.  And  look  at  her  love  for  me !  She 
has  the  greatest  heart  I  have  ever  known  I"  She 
turned  to  Kaminsky.  "Nachman,"  she  said,  clasping 
his  hand  goodbye,  "take  care  of  Sonya !  She  is  the 
most  precious  thing  in  Russia."  She  gave  him  an 
envelope  containing  ten  thousand  rouble  notes. 
"This  was  for  Grenning.  Now  it's  for  the  cause. 
It  means  that  you  and  Sonya  shall  have  a  little  free 
dom  for  a  while  to  work  for  Russian  freedom.  And 
can't  you  have  Grenning's  body  cared  for?  The 
cause  owes  him  burial." 

Nachman  Kaminsky  hesitated  an  instant.  "Yes," 
he  said.  "I  will."  But  he  knew  that  Grenning 
would  lie  that  night  in  a  bed  of  quicklime.  No  man 
of  the  future  would  read  in  the  broken,  half-knit 
bones  of  that  skeleton  how  men  were  governed  under 
the  Tsars. 

Two  hours  later,  Marion  and  Walt  Bradfield, 
sailing  northwestward  through  the  Gulf  of  Riga  in 


THE     CHASM  379 

the  track  of  the  outgoing  ships,  were  helped  over  the 
rail  to  the  deck  of  the  steamship  Kursk,  loaded  with 
ponies  and  Jewish  emigrants  bound  for  London. 

Before  night  fell,  breathing  deep  breaths  of  cold 
salt  air,  standing  close  and  warm  together  in  the  lea 
of  the  cabin  on  the  after  deck,  they  saw  the  white 
shore  of  Russia  fade  into  a  cloud  beyond  the  sea- 
rim  of  the  Baltic. 


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